


The Mad Kings

by JeanZedlav



Series: Love is Not a Victory March [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Forced Marriage, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), Miscarriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pairings and characters in no particular order, only POV characters tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 75
Words: 226,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanZedlav/pseuds/JeanZedlav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey's not as frightened of his handless uncle as he is of the monstrous one. Tywin chooses between the Baratheon Crown and the future of Casterly Rock. Across the Narrow Sea, Mad Aerys' daughter seeks the Iron Throne.</p><p>Focus on Lannisters and Targaryens, but includes chapters from Beyond the Wall to Dorne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Old Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin has been Hand of the King before, but there is little difference in the kings he served.

4/17/300

Tywin Lannister kept late nights and early mornings, enjoying the long hours as the King’s Hand and de facto ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Upon his arrival, he had instructed the Tower of the Hand be decorated in Lannister colors, although he rarely spent his waking hours in his chambers. The great banners and bright colors of his House made the old Tower feel warner, and Tywin took great joy in making his ownership of it obvious, as Aers had never allowed the Lannister colors in King’s Landing. The two guards stationed outside his door belonged to him, not to the Crown, and Tywin felt as safe in King’s Landing as he ever had, with Stannis defeated and his golden-haired grandson on the throne.

Long hours or no, all men must sleep, and the sound of a smith arriving at his door started him from slumber. Instantly awake, he started bolt upright, reaching for his robe even before he registered the voices. As the arguing grew louder, broken by the incessant thudding of a fist against the wooden door, he stalked toward it, unable to imagine what was of enough importance that his guards hadn’t turned the intruder away. He threw open the door to find his guards standing on either side, watching worriedly as his son pounded on the door.

“Jaime? What is-“

Jaime had always been a quiet child, moreso when compared to Cersei. He had never been a drunkard like his siblings and had never been seen in a whorehouse. It had not escaped Tywin’s notice that, of the three, he resembled Joanna the most. That and his skill with the sword had made him Tywin’s favorite, even after he had been robbed of his place as heir when Aerys demanded he join the Kingsguard. Now he had him back, his missing swordhand notwithstanding, and he had not been so content with the future of House Lannister since Jaime and Cersei were children, and Joanna still alive.

Jaime was not quiet now. The moment the door opened, he lunged forward and latched onto the front of his father’s robe, his eyes wild. His false hand pressed into Tywin’s chest as if Jaime had forgotten that it could not grasp as the other could. Behind him, the guards reached for their swords, but did not draw them. They would not dare harm the heir to House Lannister on anything less than Tywin’s direct order. Of all Tywin’s children, none, not even Cersei, had dared to touch him in anger, but Tywin had not seen such mindless fury in Jaime’s eyes since the body of Elia Martell had been brought to them all those years ago.

“Unhand me!” Tywin grabbed his son’s wrists, trying to pry them away from his clothing, but Jaime was having none of it. His false hand shifted, but his arm did not move.

“You told him,” Jaime’s voice was tight with fury, and the confusion clear on Tywin’s face only made his scowl twist into a snarl. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Told who? What are you on about?” Tywin expected this sort of behavior from Cersei. He would not have been surprised to find Cersei outside of his door, held back by only his guards, but Cersei had never been clever in her rages. She would have railed, but it would have been left to Tywin to solve whatever angered her. Jaime had already made his decision, and the anger in his face would have sent lesser men fleeing.

“ _The Boy-King,_ ” it was forced through clenched teeth. Jaime had always treated Robert with a quiet distain, but he had been nothing but kind to Cersei’s children. He had encouraged Tommen's kittens and broken Myrcella out of Joffrey's shadow, and although he had little contact with Joffrey, he had never referred to him as anything but the proper king. “You told him about Sansa.”

“I’ve told Joffrey nothing about your little wife, Jaime,” Jaime’s body shuddered, his grip tightened, and Tywin remembered a much younger man shaking as he stripped a Lannister guard of his cloak and lay it over the body of a princess. As if following ungiven orders, two other men had wrapped the Targaryen children in their cloaks as well. The reminder of Aerys brought the next words to Tywin’s mouth, “You should take care how you address the king in his own keep.”

“Fuck the king,” Tywin was reminded of Tyrion’s anger at his family, but Jaime’s grip had eased and he sagged in exhaustion, “Cersei told him.”

“What’s wrong with Sansa, that you’ve come here at this hour?” Tywin had explained, very carefully, to both Joffrey and Cersei, that Sansa Stark was off limits. If she was to be the Lady of Casterly Rock, she was not to be abused by them. If they sought to humiliate her, if they tried to beat her, or if Joffrey ordered her brought to his bed, Tywin would send her to Casterly Rock. He had also made it clear to Cersei that if he had to send Jaime away because of her or her son, she’d go with all of Joanna’s jewels, which Cersei now kept in her chambers.

“She’s lost the babe,” Tywin nodded solemnly, glancing behind him to the wine left untouched on the corner table. Perhaps it would help calm Jaime’s fury.

“Joanna lost her first child as well, it’s not uncommon for first mothers, come in, Jaime, we’ll discuss this,” Tywin turned to lead his son deeper into his chambers, but Jaime’s grip tightened suddenly. 

“You don’t understand,” he collected himself with a breath, and shook his head, “come and see Sansa.”

“I have no wish-“

“It’s important you understand.” And so Tywin followed his son into the keep, to the rooms which Jaime had been given for himself and Sansa. One of the guards followed, as Tywin wore only his robe and nightclothes and Jaime had no sword. Tywin was not pleased about this, but Jaime didn’t seem to notice as he hurried through the keep, pausing only once they reached Sansa’s door. He knocked twice, briefly, and stepped inside.

Sansa lay on the bed, eyes closed and body limp. Maester Pycelle looked up as they entered, clearly alarmed to see Tywin out so late and in such improper dress. Jaime ignored the maid who drew blankets over Sansa’s body at their entrance and the maester’s words as he approached the bed, and pulled the covers back so Tywin could see Sansa’s stomach. 

For an instant, Tywin could see the bruises Aerys had given Joanna, and his hands balled into fists in his fury. The most obvious mark was the bruising around what was obviously a footprint from a large boot. Against the fury of that mark, the smaller marks from what appeared to be multiple hits with a gloved hand and the side of a sword. Tywin’s gaze traveled up, to hand-prints on her breasts and fingermarks on her throat. 

“There are marks on her back and legs too.” Jaime was gripping the blankets so tightly his knuckles were white, “Hand marks. On my wife’s legs. If he had them rape her-“ 

Jaime couldn’t bring himself to finish his thought, but didn’t need to. Tywin turned to Pycelle, “what’s been done to her?”

“She’s lost the babe, my lord-“

“I can see that,” she’d lost the heir to Casterly Rock. Joffrey had killed the heir to Casterly Rock. The implications were not lost on the Hand. Tywin’s voice was careful. “What else?”

“I believe she’s been choked,” Pycelle began, voice wavering and eyes on the floor, “the bruises on her chest and stomach are from hands gloved in steel. She was kicked in the stomach as well. There are marks on her back from the flat of a sword, in several places the edges of it drew blood. The marks on her legs appear to be blows, but I cannot tell if she was raped. The trauma from losing the babe was too much to be able to tell.”

“You were here when I arrived,” Jaime was looking at Pycelle now, his eyes dangerous. His right hand went to where his sword once was, and when he didn’t find it his eyes darted to where it rested. “Who sent you?”

“My lord-“

“WHO SENT YOU!” Jaime’s shout made the maids jump, but they were paid no mind. One came close to the bed and covered Sansa again, Jaime releasing the blankets when he realized her intent.

“Queen Cersei, my lord.” The room went deathly quiet. Jaime opened his mouth and shut it again, looking from Tywin to Sansa on the bed. Tywin stared at Pycelle, remembering another time a queen had sent for the maester in this keep. Queen Rhaella had waited for him once, outside of Joanna’s rooms. She had one of the rare bruises on her face, and she had stopped him as he tried to enter the room.  _I’m sending her away._  Tywin had cared nothing for her, but he understood the meaning of her words.  _I sent for the maester earlier, he is with her now._  Joanna had told him that the queen had caught her husband trying to trap Joanna and broke in, earning a beating, but Rhaella had never spoken to Tywin alone again.

“She knew and she didn’t send for us,” Jaime reached for Sansa’s hand, and Tywin wondered if he had come to care for his wife or if he mourned the babe. “She let him do this.”

“Do everything you can,” Tywin ordered Pycelle. “When will she be able to travel safely?”

“On a horse, two months, maybe three, but it will be painful. If she’s in a carriage, two weeks. A month would be less painful for her.” 

“I’ll have a carriage ready in two weeks for her,” Tywin began, “I’m sending both of you to Casterly Rock. She’ll act as it’s Lady when she recovers.”

“You’re letting Robert’s _spawn_ get away with this?” 

“I will handle Cersei and Joffrey,” Tywin answered, “I’m sending Tyrion and Tommen with you as well.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment. The removal of all possible Lannisters from King’s Landing did not bode well for the current king. Myrcella was already in Dorne, and he knew Tywin had plans for Cersei’s marriage. 

Tywin paused for a long moment, staring at Sansa’s red hair against the pillows, “Was the child old enough to determine a gender?”

“Only just, my lord,” Pycelle answered quietly, “I believe it was a boy.”

Tywin did not trust himself to answer that, and so he turned and left, shutting the door quietly on his way out. A half hour later, a soft knock sounded on the door, and Jaime opened it to find five Lannister guards. 

“Your lord father has ordered us to guard your and the Lady Lannisters’ chambers, Ser Jaime.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered why Tywin didn't see the resemblance Joffrey had to the Mad King Aerys. Perhaps he just didn't have the time to see what Joffrey was before his death? Here, another Lannister bride is being abused by a king, and Tywin can't help but see the resemblance. He can pick Cersei's Baratheon children or Jaime's Lannister son, and for a man so defensive of the Lannister legacy, the choice might not be easy.
> 
> A womb quickens for first time mothers about five months into pregnancy and one can tell the sex of the baby at about four months, so we're at about four and a half here. It was a bit of an argument between the reluctant Lannister seed and the fertile Stark womb, but they got pregnant fairly quickly.


	2. Lady Stark I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months before Joffrey summoned Sansa, King Robb Stark traded Tywin's nephews, Willem and Tion, for Ser Wylis Manderly, Ser Donnel Locke, Lord Harrion Karstark, and Lord Medger Cerwyn.
> 
> During the swap, Lyonel Frey gave Robb two messages on behalf of his uncle.

12/3/299

“Rise, Lord Harrion Karstark, Lord Medger Cerwyn,” as they rose, muddied and wearing rags, but seemingly unharmed, Robb looked the newly freed Karstark lord in the face. “Lord Karstark, your father committed treason by letting the Kingslayer go free, but because you have sworn to me, I am willing to treat that as his crime, and not the crime of House Karstark.” 

“Thank you, your Grace,” he scowled viciously at his kin, and Catelyn wondered if Arnolf Karstark would survive the night, “I promise you, my House will always be loyal to the King in the North.”

As the two men were led to their Houses’ tents, Robb returned to his own tent with the two scrolls clutched in his hand. His bannermen crowded around the table, but he handed the smaller scroll to Catelyn herself, and opened the one bearing the Baratheon’s sigil. The men spoke quietly among themselves, most keeping their eyes on Robb, and Catelyn read quickly, her heart sinking slowly until she came to the last of the page.

Beside her, Robb spoke first, “the Lannisters offer a peace treaty.” The tent went deathly silent as the king’s eyes skimmed the page before he continued. “We would not be required to go to King’s Landing. If I bow the knee and aid the Crown in defeating Stannis, they will return my father’s bones to Winterfell. My sister Sansa would be married to Jaime Lannister to insure the lasting treaty, and a betrothal will be arranged for Edmure's heir; Edmure would become the Lord Paramount of the Trident and the Lannister and Tyrell armies would withdraw from the Riverlands after he bows the knee; the North would be as it was before, mother would be named Warden of the North until my first son is of age to take the position. They ask that if Rickon is alive, he be sent to foster at Casterly Rock, where he would be with Sansa. Edmure’s second son would foster at Casterly Rock when he turns six, and Sansa’s second son would foster at Winterfell when he reaches the age of six.”

He looked to her then, and Catelyn offered him the letter she held, accepting his in return, explaining for the sake of the lords, “it’s from Sansa. She says that she does not want to marry Jaime Lannister, but that he has been kind to her and she knows her duty to her family.”

“That letter is from Tywin Lannister,” scoffed the Greatjon, “not Lady Sansa.”

“At the end, she talks about me teaching her to embroider. She spends far longer on it that one might expect,” Catelyn’s voice would have broken, but she paused to take a long breath. Robb’s eyes came up slowly to met her own, “I think that she’s trying to tell us that she’s not lying. I’m certain the letter’s been read and that they asked her to write it, but I think it’s Sansa’s meaning.” 

Robb looked up at the lords gathered close. They'd had this discussion before, but now they were much more resigned, “you’ve fought this war with me. What do you think?”

“I have no great love for the Lannisters,” after a long silence, Wyman Manderly spoke first, “I have only just gotten my son back from them, and if my king wishes to continue fighting them, I will do so gladly. Yet we are in a poor position for such a fight. We have Lannisters to the West, Ironborn to the North, and Tyrells and the Crown to the South. Lady Lysa has not answered our ravens, so we can expect no aid from the Vale. I would not put it past Walder Frey to treat with the Lannisters, and they are already in his lands. Stannis has been defeated at Blackwater and King Joffrey – bastard or no - is secure in his hold with the Tyrells. Lord Karstark murdered Tully men and let the Kingslayer free, we don’t know what else his House might do. We have heard nothing from Winterfell and the Greyjoys hold Moat Caitlin.”

“A truce will make us seem weak,” once he had shouted it, but now the Greatjon repeated the words solemnly, staring at the Manderly lord. Robb lifted a hand as the Northern lords began to buzz with discussion.

“You’d advise us to take their offer.”

“I advise you that we will get no better offer.” At that, even the Greatjon didn’t protest.

“When Edmure marries the Frey girl, we might win them back,” Robb said, “with them, we still have some chance of success, however small.”

“Walder Frey wanted his grandson to be King in the North,” Jason Mallister spoke with a dark look on his face, “he will settle for nothing less than a marriage to the eldest Stark.” 

“He might accept a marriage of my Frey daughter to King Robb’s first son,” Edmure offered, and several of the lords from the Riverlands murmured in agreement. Mallister said nothing, but watched Robb carefully.

“We’ve lost 13,000 soldiers,” Galbart Glover noted, “we’ve lost Winterfell, Deepwood Motte, Torrhens Square, Hornwood, and the men at Moat Cailin have died to protect it.” He paused, but no one broke in. He was well known for his long pauses in speech, for he did not speak often and was thoughtful when he did, “Tywin’s army is still mostly intact, although the Lannisters have likely lost more men than us. They gained about 60,000 from the Reach and the reports say some of what was Stannis’ army now fight for them.”

“We can’t hold the Riverlands,” the Greatjon did not look at Catelyn nor the lords of the Riverlands. His eyes locked onto Robb,” but if we contact Howland Reed for help, we can make it through the neck and retreat to the North. We can hold the North.”

No one had an answer to that. The Riverland lords broke into soft whispers and many eyed the Northern lords warily. Robb looked into his uncle’s face and they stared at each other. Catelyn took Sansa’s letter from Robb again, and looked over the handwriting for long moments.

“The Crown has Ned’s bones and body. No matter what we do, they’ll keep my eldest daughter,” her voice was quiet, but she didn’t waver. Let them call her weak and laugh at her, it was her daughter who would endure the Kingslayer’s wrath and her son would die in the same lands he was born in, “they have 60,000 more men than we do. The Riverlands have bled and died for us, and our only choice is to leave them behind. They promise my son will not die in King’s Landing if he bends the knee in the field and fights against Stannis, who’s army is already half-beaten. The only punishment Robb will face is being removed as Warden of the North, but his line will not be removed from succession of Winterfell and Rickon is beyond all our reach, so what does it matter?” Catelyn looked up to the lords surrounding her son, “Once you said that we would seem weak if we begged for a truce, well now they offer us one and so they must be weak. Tell me how we suffer more by bending the knee than making peace. Tell me how this war will bring Ned back to me and I will fight it, but if he cannot come back to me, let his grandson take his rightful place in Winterfell.”

“We started this war because they beheaded my father,” Robb’s hands clenched at his sides, “they offer his bones.”

“His bones and the lives of what remains of your men,” Catelyn agreed, “nothing we do will being my Ned back. As the Greatjon says, if the Lannisters decide to break their own peace and continue this war, we can defend the North.”

Robb stared numbly at the letter in his hands, and then looked up at his men, “I will consider Lord Tywin’s offer. Please, leave us.”

The men left slowly, in twos and threes, speaking in low voices amid themselves, and Catelyn held Sansa’s letter in shaking hands, wondering if they would at last have peace. If she could return to Winterfell and sit in her rooms and cry without fear. Eventually, only Edmure and Brynden were left with mother and son. Robb sat heavily once the last few men had gone, and Catelyn looked to her brother, “Edmure?”

“If we mean to make peace with the Lannisters, or if King Robb must leave us and go North, I believe I will ask Tytos Blackwood for his daughter’s hand,” Edmure glanced at Robb as he spoke, as if concerned the young king would rebuke him. Beside him, their uncle gave Edmure a questioning look.

“Lord Tytos’ daughter is eight.”

“She cannot be married until she flowers, around three and ten, and I can wait until she is seven and ten rightfully,” Edmure agreed, “in nine years. It will take even longer for her to have two sons. By the time the second is born, perhaps the Lannisters will have forgotten most of this and the Kingslayer may have grown fond of Sansa. If one of my sons must foster with the Lannisters, I would rather it be after all talk of war has calmed. He’ll be safer.”

“It would take at least two years for a woman to give you two sons, and then they must grow to be six. In eight years, there will be peace,” the Blackfish shook his head slowly, “I would advise you to marry Rhialta Vance, Lord Karyl’s daughter. She’s already old enough to marry and safely bear sons.”

“Would you advise me, uncle?” the Blackfish looked taken aback, but Edmure looked to him as he continued. “I don’t care if you refuse to marry or bring your lover to Riverrun. I’d just like to have you there.” 

“I… would be honored to advise you, Edmure,” he decided at last, “even if we do not make peace.”

“You want to, don’t you?” Robb looked at his great-uncle, and without his men surrounding them he looked all of his sixteen years, his auburn hair, grown long by war, falling in his face. Catelyn did not reach to brush it away as she wanted too. Let him be a king while he could. Robb looked to her next, “you all think we should accept their peace.”

“We have 12,000 men, including those that are not here. Lord Tywin has 20,000 men, by our best estimates. The Tyrells are protecting King’s Landing now, but they don’t need all 60,000 of their men for that. Eventually, some of those men will join Tywin’s. The Riverlanders are watching their homes be burnt, and the Northern men want to go home and drive out the Ironborn who have taken their lands and murdered Stark sons,” Brynden met Catelyn’s gaze. “If I were you, I would accept this peace, yet if you chose to fight, I will be beside you.”

“Mother?”

“You said that you’re fighting for Ned, Robb,” Catelyn reached for him, taking his hands in hers and holding them tightly, for her or him she didn’t know, “Ned wouldn’t want you to die just because he did. There is no honor in dying for a war we can’t win. We’ve lost Bran and Rickon, and if I lose you as well, Jaime Lannister will be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Tywin will marry him to Sansa if we approve or not. When Ned died, he left me in charge of Winterfell, to teach you the rest of what you needed to know, but now you are a king and I cannot command you. If you’ll listen to me, take the Crown’s peace. We will never get a better offer. You will owe the Freys nothing and Jeyne’s son will be Lord of Winterfell.”

Robb nodded slowly, and took a long breath, almost sighing, “what will my lords say.”

“They should be happy they get their lands back,” the Blackfish noted, “many who rebel against the King don’t get to keep their heads when they surrender.”

Catelyn remembered Brandon’s fate and said nothing, only smoothed her hands over Sansa’s letter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to stay with the GRRM 'no king POV' habit.
> 
> Rickard Karstark tried to kill Jaime, and instead accidentally set him free, thus Robb had Genna Lannister's son (Tion) and grandson (Willem) to barter with. He accepted Tywin's trade, and Tion's brother Lyonel came for them.
> 
> House Karstark didn't revolt even though Robb executed Rickard Karstark, because Rickard had committed treason by letting the Kingslayer - who'd they have liked to see dead - go free.
> 
> For lords used here, we have the familiar Greatjon Umber (Northern); Lord Wyman Manderly (Northern); Lord Jason Mallister (Riverlands), his seat at Seaguard is closest to the Twins; Galbart Glover (Northern); Lord Edmure Tully (Riverlands), Catelyn's brother; Brynden 'The Blackfish' Tully, Catelyn's uncle; Lord Tytos Blackwood (Riverlands); and Lord Karyl Vance (Riverlands).


	3. Queen Regent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei has done much to protect her family.

4/18/300

First it had been Stannis Baratheon.

Cersei had no idea what slight she had committed against him, save bearing the king heirs. He had never been cruel to her, but never kind. He was always sharp and blunt, and never spent longer in a room with her than he had to. Had he been any other man, Cersei might have thought he lusted after her, but this was Stannis Baratheon, the man who had banned whorehouses on Dragonstone. The man who refused to set aside the wife who hadn’t been able to give him sons. The man who hated being given the prize of Dragonstone because he felt Storm's End was his rightful seat. He did not want his brother’s wife.

He was easy enough to ignore, but when Cersei found that the calculating looks he had once directed only at her had been moved to Jaime – and worse, her children - it was time to take action. She forbid Jaime from speaking to or being alone with the children, and thus didn't need to fake a falling out so that she could insist other members of the Kingsguard guard her more often. Her efforts didn’t seem to make a difference to whatever idea Robert’s brother had stuck in his head.

Next was Jon Arryn.

The man had no daughters to wed to the king, yet the night of her wedding to Robert he had sat at the king’s side and cast glances at her that were meant to be unnoticed. The next morning, he had been waiting outside of the room, and as she stormed out, he padded in and quietly shut the door behind her. Afterwards, Cersei was more likely to hear of the workings of the kingdom from a sober Robert than from his Hand.

She had done nothing to Robert, but Arryn persisted in acting as though she was the single greatest threat to the kingdom. While Robert drank himself into a stupor and came home rambling about the beauty of the Stark girl, she gave him three heirs. While Robert visited whorehouses across the Seven Kingdoms and produced bastards, she slept with only one man outside her marriage. Robert screamed at her and slapped her, and she never raised a hand to him. If she’d been born with a cock, they’d have called her a merciful husband, they’d have thought her as honorable as Robert’s beloved Ned Stark. No matter what she did, from trying to get Robert to spend time with Joffrey to sitting with the small council, she was only a woman. A wife Robert hadn’t wanted.

Worse still, Arryn began to look at her children as Stannis did. Not in the way he once had, touched with pity. Arryn had tried to be something of a father to Joffrey once, before Cersei insured that he knew the babe belonged to her. If Robert chose to spend no time with him, that was his choice, but she wouldn’t have another man trying to take a role that belonged to the boy’s father. Now he looked at all three of Robert’s heirs with ill-disguised concern. 

It was Littlefinger who let slip that Stannis and Arryn had been making trips to whorehouses together. They weren’t the type to enjoy the company of whores or other men, but Littlefinger had no motive to lie to the Queen. Still, it was only when she discovered the black-haired bastards inside that their excursions made sense. First she feared for Joffrey’s crown. If Arryn truly thought him an unfit king, he might convince Robert to legitimize one of his elder bastards. It would ruin the legacy her father had built when he married her to Robert, make the years she had suffered under his drunken advances mean nothing, and leave Joffrey with war as his legacy.

It had been Maester Pycelle who had brought her the book, pressing it into her hands in the dead of night, looking over his shoulder as he explained why he had brought it to her. Remembering first the looks directed at she and Jaime, she looked through the Lannister lineage, then she recalled the expression Stannis had recently adopted every time he saw her _Baratheon_ children. Black-haired bastards and black-haired lords and three Baratheon children with golden hair blocking Stannis from the throne. Cersei had known what had to be done, but she had not been the one to do it. Pycelle had slipped Arryn poison, and Arryn’s death was enough to send Stannis fleeing back to his seat.

Before Cersei could even begin to convince Robert that Stannis would make a poor Hand, he had announced his decision to make Ned Stark his Hand. Cersei had known then that it wasn’t over. Ned Stark was another of the children fostered by Jon Arryn. Perhaps it would never be over, but her children were hers, bold or bright or bashful, and she would protect them with every resource she had.

She had expected her father to back her in this. Joffrey was the king, after all, and it was in House Lannister’s best interest to have one of their sons on the throne, else Cersei would not have been sold to Robert. Tyrion was a cruel creature and Jaime had always been better in a battle of steel than subtlety, but Tywin could be counted on to do what was best for the family.

“This isn’t about Sansa Stark.” 

“You demanded my presence and had Lannister men attack members of the Kingsguard because she lost her son, and this isn’t about her?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to the disarmed Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund before returning to Cersei, “this isn’t about Sansa Stark. This is about Jaime’s son, who she was carrying, and who she lost.”

“I lost my first babe while it was still in the womb,” a babe conceived while Jaime was unavailable to sire it. A babe that would have taken the throne from a Lannister son, “it happens often with first time mothers.” 

“Do the Kingsguard often beat first time mothers on the orders of their king?” Cersei picked up the wine and poured herself a generous glass. She had hoped Pycelle would be able to save Jaime’s babe, but she had known that he had not the moment she found the Lannister knight outside her door. Jaime had sworn he felt nothing for the Stark girl not two nights ago, while they lay in Cersei’s bed with her skin pressed against his. He only cared for the child she carried. The child the Kingsguard had jarred from her womb. 

“They went overboard. Joffrey did not want to harm his cousin, only to teach Robb Stark a lesson,” Cersei pulled her skirts to the side of her legs with one hand, tangling her fingers in the fabric. Would Tywin have been so angry if Robert had hit her in court instead of in private, or was it only because it was Jaime’s son.

“What lesson has the death of the Lannister heir taught Robb Stark? That we'd torture his sister no matter what he swears? That he didn't need to war against the Crown, the Crown would kill Lannisters for him?” Tywin was not a man who showed anger easily, but Cersei had lived with him most of her life, “I will not allow any man to bring shame to our house by treating the future Lady Lannister like a baseborn whore.”

“Joffrey is the king,” Tywin’s eyes hardened. 

“ _Joffrey is thirteen_. He is not old enough to assume the throne alone and thus you are the Queen Regent. Why are you in King’s Landing serving as Regent if you cannot control your son? I might as well have sent you to Highgarden if Joffrey is going to rule alone.”

“Don’t act as if you kept me here to control Joffrey,” Cersei stood, moving to the window to look out of it, letting her skirts twist around her legs, “you would have married me away and taken the Regency yourself if Jaime hadn’t left the Kingsguard and married the Stark girl." 

Tywin’s chair scraped the floor behind her, but his footsteps didn’t follow her, “you speak as though Jaime has betrayed the king by leaving his service. I might remind you that Jaime’s marriage to the Stark girl was your idea, so that he could produce heirs and you would not have too.” 

Cersei remembered. Tywin had not bothered to hide that fact upon Jaime’s return to King’s Landing. In his escape from the Starks, he had lost a sword and a hand, but he had no desire to abandon his brothers or take a child to wife. She was fairly certain most of King’s Landing had heard him declare that. It had even gotten back to Sansa, who had no allies and little contact with friendly faces in King’s Landing.

It was fair. If she had been a man, she’d have been expected to marry once and have heirs. She had been promised Rhaegar, but followed her father’s commands and married Robert. She had produced a heir and a spare, and even gifted him a beautiful daughter. She knew that her father had been considering Jaime’s future ever since Ser Barristan was dismissed from the Kingsguard, and she knew Jaime would agree to take a wife to spare her from another Robert. He could ignore the girl as he pleased, which was better than her marriage had been, and when Sansa had so soon fallen pregnant, removing her from the Tyrell’s reach forever, Tywin had been pleased. 

“What would you have me do, chastise Joffrey as though he were a child and not a king?”

“Joffrey must be made to understand that all actions, even those of a king, have consequences. If he’d left Ned Stark’s head where it was, we’d still have the North under control and could easily put down Stannis’ rebellion. It took the boy less than a fortnight after his father’s death to start a war and you did nothing to stop him,” Cersei turned to find her father watching her solemnly.

“What was I to do? I told him to leave Stark with his head and send him to the Wall-“ 

“A Regent controls the kingdom in place of the king, they do not let the king do whatever he wants. If you had ordered Ser Payne to stop and had Stark taken away, you would have saved us all much trouble,” Tywin came closer, then. “I am sending Jaime and his wife to Casterly Rock.” 

Cersei's fingers tightened around the glass. When Robert had died, King's Landing had gotten much better for her, but she remembered living at court without him, “Jaime is needed in King’s Landing.”

“Jaime is no longer a member of the Kingsguard but the heir to Casterly Rock. I am having Tyrion accompany them, and I am sending Tommen as well.”

Rage welled inside Cersei. Jaime could be talked out of leaving, with her words and skin, but Tommen was only eight. Her lord father had always seen fit to give her orders, even when she was the Queen and he only a Lord, “you aren’t sending my son anywhere. Tyrion already sold Myrcella like livestock and I won’t have my youngest boy taken from me too.”

“Would you have him do in King’s Landing, then? If Stannis should manage to kill Joffrey, his heir is currently within the keep, in easy reach. If we send Tommen to Casterly Rock, any assassins would have to get past both the Kingsguard and the guards of Casterly Rock.

“If Joffrey wins this war, Tommen will be given Dragonstone. Jaime can teach him how to rule it and he can later squire for one of my bannermen. When this war is over, he’ll be either a king or a lord and he must learn how to rule." 

“No one will break into the keep,” Cersei suddenly felt cold. Her own father had once plundered the city, killed the king’s heirs because the Mad King had used them as a shield against Dorne, and suddenly her son’s proximity to the king concerned her. 

“Jaime will protect Tommen. It’s the best for the future of the Baratheon dynasty and Tommen’s safety. Perhaps he can even be found a Lannister bride.”

“Kevan’s youngest daughter might suit him,” Cersei mused, “I’m sure he’d like to see her as the Lady of Dragonstone.”

“Good. I’ll speak to Kevan on it when Tommen’s a bit older. I’d like to see my family married and having sons,” Tywin’s voice had never been anything but calm, but when he spoke of a growing family the tightness went out of it. 

“You will stay here, then?” Tywin smiled grimly. 

“I am the King’s Hand and I serve at the king’s pleasure. I must send Jaime away for the safety of his sons, but I will remain here,” Tywin focused on Cersei fully then, as he hadn’t through most of the conversation. “I will keep many Lannister men here as well, to see to the king’s safety, but there will be conditions. I want the heads of the men who hurt Sansa Stark.” 

“They are members of the Kingsguard.”

“I am only being so generous because it was the king who ordered it. Had it been any other man who killed Jaime’s son I’d demand his head as well,” Cersei followed Tywin’s gaze toward the two Kingsguard in the room. “You can tell me who caused this or I will ask the Stark girl when she wakes up.” 

“Joffrey won’t be happy,” Cersei pointed out. She had seen him in his rages and he was worse than Robert, although he had never dared touch her. “He’s fond of his men.” 

“ _Joffrey is thirteen_. You are Queen Regent and if you wish to keep the position, you will act like one. I will have the heads of the men who killed Jaime’s son or I and all the Lannister men and gold will return to the Rock,” Cersei didn’t understand for a moment, and when she did her fingers ached to throw her glass against the wall. She had put a Lannister on the throne and still Jaime was more important than her sons. Jaime had once told her how Tywin bartered her marriage to Robert. Robert could have Cersei’s hand and Lannister gold to mend the kingdom or he could find his own wife and his own gold. She wondered if he’d have cared half so much if it had been Tyrion’s son.

“Ser Meryn and Ser Boros,” Meryn stiffened in the corner and Ser Osmund edged away from him as though afraid being associated with him would lose him his head as well. 

“That’s all?” Tywin’s gaze never moved from her, “what did they do?”

“I wasn’t present for all of it, I only walked in when I heard the Stark girl’s screams. I left so I might send Pycelle to her chambers,” Cersei had watched them strip her dress away and nearly screamed herself when Ser Meryn kicked the girl’s stomach. Even Robert had never touched her when she’d been pregnant, no matter what she did. “The rest of the Kingsguard had other assignments, only Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were in the room when I arrived.”

“Jaime thinks you told Joffrey that Sansa was pregnant.”

“Joffrey asked me. He said someone mentioned it to him, said she appeared fatter than usual,” she tore he gaze from the doomed Kingsguard to look directly into her father’s eyes. “I told him he was right. I thought carrying his cousin could only protect her.”

“So did I.” Tywin admitted heavily, “Jaime will leave in two weeks. Tommen may ride in the carriage or on horseback, it matters little.” He turned for the door, and without looking gave one last order, “Give Ser Osmund back his sword and leave him to guard the Queen Regent. Bring Ser Meryn.”

Ser Meryn struggled, shouting to his brother for aid, but Ser Osmund took his sword and sheathed it before retreating to her side. It took four Lannister men, but Ser Meryn was soon out of the room. Cersei finished her wine while waiting for the shouting of the guards and clatter of armor to leave, and then turned to Ser Osmund.

“From now on, you and the rest of the Kingsguard will follow my orders.”

Ser Osmund paused before venturing, “Are you telling us not to obey the king?”

“The king is thirteen, Ser Osmund, and I am his Regent. Our first duty is to protect him, which includes protecting him from himself. If my son wants you to saddle his horse, obey him. If he tells you to kill his horse, come to me. Use that ugly thing you keep inside your helm if you want to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned that the timeline was slightly altered. Jaime escaped rather than being freed and was rescued from the Bloody Mummers. He arrived back at King's Landing around the time Tyon/Willem Lannister were murdered (they're alive). 
> 
> Cersei cares nothing for Sansa, but to some degree even she mourns the loss of Jaime's babe, moreso when she learned it was a son.
> 
> Text at the end is slightly altered from A Storm of Swords - Jaime VIII. I like the idea of Cersei stepping up as Queen Regent while Joffrey's still alive, even if it's only to protect Joffrey.


	4. Lady Lannister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months ago, King's Landing celebrated the new century with a marriage between King Joffrey Baratheon and Lady Margaery of House Tyrell

1/1/300

“What’s that?”

Sansa started at the voice, eyes darting up to find Jaime’s face in her mirror. He had the decency to look ashamed at entering without knocking, but her maids didn’t seem to notice. In the month since their wedding, he had rarely entered her rooms without mentioning it earlier in the day. Although, even if he had wished to, it would be impossible with the rush of last-minute wedding preparations.

Only Jeyne Poole paused, to blink at him with wide eyes before hurrying on. The eldest of the maids frowned sharply at Jeyne, and made as if to say something. Sansa shifted enough to glare at her, protective of her friend. Jeyne had been Jaime’s wedding gift to her, and she didn’t mean to lose her again. She’d have to speak to Jaime about Cersei’s maids.

While Sansa was distracted, Jaime had come closer, reaching up to touch her hairnet gently.

“It was a gift, from Queen Cersei,” Sansa explained, watching Jaime’s face in the mirror as he frowned at it, lifting one of the black jewels curiously, “she sent it with her handmaiden this morning."

“Would you wear this instead?” Sansa turned, the girl fixing her hair lifting her hands free, and found Jaime holding a beautiful hair net, made of silver, with white jewels at the edges. Stark colors, she realized, and her breath stopped as her eyes darted up to look him in the face. 

“I can’t.”

“Why not? If Cersei's gift is important to you-“ 

“No!” Since her father’s death, few people had been kind to her. The day Jaime had married her, she’d had one dress that fit properly. Her wedding dress. When she had dressed the next morning, Jaime had stared at her, and she had admitted that the one she wore – that came to above her ankles, that had frayed hems on the sleeves and skirt, that was out of fashion and had once been too large – was the one that fit best. She’d had new clothes within three days. She didn’t want Jaime to think she didn’t appreciate his gifts. “It’s only…”

Jaime watched her, puzzled, and Sansa finished the words, “I am a traitor’s daughter and I should not wear a traitor’s colors.” Jaime scoffed loudly, making Sansa wince. Jaime seemed fearless, confident in his family’s power, and Sansa could only hope that she wouldn’t be punished for his insolence.

“Our marriage brought your brother back into the king’s peace,” he offered her the hairnet again, “you may wear as many Stark colors as pleases you. If anyone asks, tell them that I ordered you to wear them, because I am pleased with my good marriage.” 

“Good marriage?” Cersei had made it very clear that she was less than nothing, a hostage of the Crown until her brother bent the knee. She lived or died at the king’s pleasure. Now she had traded any hope of going home for Robb’s peace.

“The Great Houses rarely intermarry,” Jaime agreed firmly, as if he took the doubt in her voice for ignorance, “it’s a great honor to have a Stark daughter as the Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“Thank you,” Sansa accepted the hairnet just as the girl behind her finished removing the one already in place, and she handed it to her, gaze only lingering for a moment. Jaime took the other hairnet from the maid and pocketed it. He took her hands in his and kissed them, before backing away, “I must make sure Tyrion hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor, tradition with the new century, you know. I’ll see you at the wedding.” 

Sansa smiled at him, and turned back to her maids. At almost the exact moment the door closed, the eldest maid came out of the side room and marched up to the girl who was carefully fixing Sansa’s hair. She took one look at it, and slapped the girl on her arm, causing Sansa to jump at the sound. “You’re making her look foolish!” 

She reached forward and Sansa felt a sharp jerk at her hair. Crying out, she turned around quickly, surprising the older woman, who scowled at her in a way a maid should not, “Lady Stark, we were ordered to prepare you for the king’s wedding-“

“Don’t touch me or any of my maids again,” Sansa’s voice was careful, because this was not one of her maids. This one had been sent my Cersei to insure she looked proper.

“The queen said that you were to look like a proper Southern lady, fit for Ser Jaime.”

“If you touch me again, I’ll tell Jaime you tried to steal his gift to me,” Sansa threatened, and all four maids stared at her. Sansa wasn’t sure who was more surprised, she or them, but if she was not a traitor’s daughter, then she was far more important than a maid, even one sent by Cersei. When Sansa didn’t apologize or turn away, the eldest maid stormed back into the closet, presumably to do whatever she had been doing during Jaime’s visit.

Sansa turned back around, and, after several moments, one of the maids returned to her hair and Jeyne took down her dress, red lined with white. When the girl had finished with her hair, they helped her into the dress and Jeyne laced it. They then sent the third girl to the door, to see if the guard was ready to leave. The girl phrased it as, “Ser Daven, Lady Sansa is ready.”

Jaime met she and the guard just inside the Keep. He smiled widely when he saw them, “Cousin Daven, Lady Sansa!” He offered Sansa his arm, which she took mostly on instinct, and paused to speak with his cousin. Tyrion, who Jaime had been speaking to, smiled warmly at her.

“Lady Sansa, you look lovely,” in Lannister red and Stark white. Tyrion didn’t seem to notice either. Sansa lifted her head higher and smiled down at him.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” Outside, Jaime mounted a beautiful white mare while Tyrion waved away his squire and joined Sansa in her litter. The day was beautiful, but people crowded the streets, and after several minutes, Tyrion moved to close the curtains. Even still, the crowd was large enough to hear them shouting, but the leering men could no longer see in. Sansa’s hands were shaking, but she buried her hands in her skirts and tried to answer Tyrion when he asked questions amid his ramblings. 

Inside the Sept, Sansa stood between Jaime and Tyrion as Lord Mace Tyrell led Lady Margaery up the aisle to Joffrey. They exchanged words that had once stuck in Sansa’s throat, and Joffrey half-threw her green-and-yellow Tyrell cloak to her father before gently placing a black stag over his new Queen’s shoulders.

Sansa’s hands stuttered in their clapping, and she wondered if Margaery’s life would be as terrible as hers would have been. Tyrion’s voice was soft and low, “we have a new queen.”

“Mother have mercy,” Sansa was seized with a sudden fear that someone had heard Jaime, but no one gave him a second look. She didn’t get to dwell on it long. She caught Jaime’s arm as they were swept along with the crowd, and she lost sight of Tyrion in the buzz. Jaime helped her into the litter, which Tyrion had already found, and he and his mare vanished into the crowd. She looked after him until Tyrion assured her of his safety with Tywin and bid her help to close the curtains again. 

Although Jaime was nowhere to be seen, Tyrion settled Sansa into her seat and climbed into his own. Although he wasn’t much to look on, he was an excellent companion, and Sansa forgot her dread at being in Joffrey’s presence. In the buzz before Joffrey and Margaery arrived came Lady Olenna Tyrell.

_“You do look quite exquisite, child,” Lady Olenna Tyrell told Sansa when she tottered up to them in a cloth-of-gold gown that must have weighed more than she did. “The wind has been at your hair, though.” The little old woman reached up and fussed at the loose strands, tucking them back into place and straightening Sansa’s hair net._

_"There, that’s better.” Lady Olenna smiled. “I am pleased to say I shall be leaving for Highgarden the day after next. I have had quite enough of this smelly city, thank you. Perhaps you would like to accompany me for a little visit, whilst the men are off having their war? I shall miss my Margaery so dreadfully, and all her lovely ladies. Your company would be such sweet solace.”_

_“You are too kind, my lady,” said Sansa, “but my place is with my lord husband.”_

_Lady Olenna gave Jaime a wrinkled, toothless smile. “Oh? I assumed hewould be off leading a Lannister host against some wicked foe.”_

"My brother will remain in King's Landing for now," Queen Cersei had arrived, with Jaime at her side. "He is newly married and has been away from his family for too long. If you will excuse us, it is time we were in our places.”

“Of course, I wouldn't want to interrupt my sweet Margaery's wedding,"  _She patted Sansa’s hair again and said, “Well, off with you, child, and try to be merrier. Now where have my guardsmen gone? Left, Right, where are you? Come help me to the dais.”_

Cersei sat between her father and Jaime, and as a servant filled her glass with wine, she looked down the table to where Sansa sat. She had hoped to avoid the queen's attentions today, but instantly Cersei scowled, "little dove, did you find something wrong with my gift?”

Sansa opened her mouth to stammer something, but Jaime turned to his sister with his best Lannister smile, “my lady wife hadn’t had something in Stark colors in a long time. She had already had your gift put on this morning, but I insisted she wear the one I had made.” There was a uncomfortable pause, as the queen and her brother stared at each other, some silent message passing that Sansa couldn't see.

"Here, Sansa, look," Tyrion drew her gaze from them, to the singer who had just began. Sansa recognized the woman from Joffrey's court, but she did not know who she was. Still, Tyrion was kind to distract her from the tension. "Cersei had these singers brought from Casterly Rock." He patted her hand as her gaze flickered back to the siblings, but then Jaime had refocused on the feast and Cersei on her son's wedding.

Between conversation with the Lannister brothers and her own nerves, Sansa hardly noticed the performers, but she did notice when several dwarves appeared. At first, she thought they were meant to mock Tyrion. When they proceeded to mock Stannis, Sansa understood they were meant for a bit more. At least they had a pretense. Next they mocked Renly, and Joffrey was too distracted by the humor to notice Mace and Olenna Tyrell speaking softly to each other. If Margaery felt any discomfort, she hid it well.  She smiled warmly at Tyrion and laughed with Joffrey. Lastly, the dwarves began to mock Theon and Rickon and Bran, and Sansa kept very still. She heard Tyrion speak her name and felt Jaime take her hand, she was dimly aware that Jaime was speaking very quietly to Cersei and his father, and that Joffrey and Tyrion were speaking loudly.

 Loud footsteps and Jaime’s tight grip on her broke Sansa from her state, and she pressed herself into Jaime’s welcoming grip as Joffrey marched up to their table and dumped wine over Tyrion’s head, little splatters of it ending up over her and the Lannister woman on his other side.

He then dropped the cup on the floor and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer. Sansa reached for the cup before Tyrion could decide. Joffrey turned to look at her, but once she was sat upright, Jaime took the cup from her and began to stand. Cersei collected herself and plucked the cup from her brother’s hand. She turned to a cup bearer who had not been beside her moments before and handed him the cup, nodding at Joffrey, “the king would like more wine.”

“I would like Tyrion to get me more wine,” Sansa could see the Tyrells across the hall, on Margaery’s side, and their frowns were slowly deepening, whispers becoming more frantic. Lady Olenna exchanged a significant look with Margaery and began to snarl something at Lord Mace, who was turning red.

No one noticed them, for all eyes were still on the Lannister drama. The cupbearer paused, but Cersei didn’t. She turned to look her son full in the face, “until you are sixteen, I am Queen Regent. Your uncle will stay and enjoy the feast, this cupbearer will fetch you more wine, and you will sit with your new wife and enjoy the feast which has been thrown in your honor.”

Joffrey opened his mouth, only for Tywin to speak, “perhaps get the king watered down wine. He seems a bit out of sorts.”

Joffrey’s mouth snapped shut, and Sansa wondered if this is what Lannister family was. Selfish demands and power plays, but a certain, strange comfort in being one of them. If this was what having her family back felt like. When Joffrey left, Jaime found something to help Tyrion dry off and kept hold of her hand as he spoke with Cersei and Tywin. Sansa didn’t dare say anything to Tyrion for the rest of the feast.

Back beside Margaery, Joffrey had been distracted by the arrival of the pigeon pie. Avoiding his wine and cupbearer all together, allowed her to busy him with the festivities once again. Sansa was half-asleep by the time the bedding began. As the women descended on Joffrey, Loras and Garlan Tyrell appeared at their sister’s side. Each took one of her arms and rested the other on their sword hilt, and together the siblings made for the bedding room. The sight made Sansa’s heart ache, and she glanced sideways at Jaime. That Tywin Lannister himself had walked her to her chambers on the night of her wedding, the crowd parting as the Old Lion came near, spoke volumes to her about the care Jaime had for his wife.

Once they left, Jaime made their excuses and offered her his arm. He navigating the crowd easily, with a dry, but sticky, Tyrion following in their wake. He had only drank wine and glowered ever since the earlier, unfortunate encounter, and he said nothing to them now. Still, Sansa was pleased for their company, for she was so tired she didn’t know if she could find her way to their new rooms. Tyrion vanished into his own as Jaime opened Sansa’s door and ushered her inside. Ser Daven was missing, but two guards in red-and-gold cloaks stood outside Sansa’s door.

“I’m sorry about the wedding,” Jaime began, as her maids began to stir in their adjoining chambers. Jaime waved them off, and they closed their doors to allow their lady privacy. “Joffrey and Tyrion have quite a history.”

“The king has ’quite a history’ with everyone, my lord,” Sansa remembered very well Joffrey attempting to dance with her at their wedding and all the things before that.

“I suppose he does.” Jaime’s eyes corrected the moment the flickered toward her shoulder, where the only visible whip mark lay. Sansa wondered if he thought them as ugly as she did.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” The maids had laid out some light fruit and two glasses for the wine on the side table, and Jaime followed as Sansa moved toward them. He took the seat against the wall and accepted a glass.

“I wanted to speak with you about Lady Olenna’s gift. Would it be all right with you if I kept it for a while?”

“Of course.”

“It isn’t that you can’t accept gifts, I only want to show this one to a smith,” Sansa was nodding in agreement before he finished speaking. “I’ll return it to you soon." 

“My lord?” Jaime blinked at her, frowning, before realizing what she meant.

“It’s yours, Sansa. Lady Olenna gave it to you, not me. I only need to borrow it for a bit.”

Sansa smoothed her confusion by popping a grape into her mouth and moved away from the table, her own wine untouched. She began pulling pins from her hair and setting them in their bowl. She left Jaime’s gift beside her jewelry box and gently unwound the braid her maids had worked so hard on that morning, taking care to remove any pins she had missed while it was up. Sansa worked the braid free with her fingers and brushed her fingers through her hair until it was loose and wavy.

She had almost forgotten Jaime’s presence entirely when she turned to find him watching quietly from the table, wine glass half-empty. She padded back to the table and pulled at her skirts to arrange herself in the other seat, but Jaime waved her away.

“Don’t mind me, I can leave if you like?” Sansa remembered Joffrey’s wandering hands during their dances and Jaime snatching a cup from her hands under the king’s cold gaze and shook her head. Her mother had always told her that she must try to please her husband.

“This dress is a bit uncomfortable, just let me change,” Sansa glanced toward the closed door of the maids’ rooms and then glanced at her screen. She was hesitant to wake them but she knew she couldn’t handle the complex laces alone.

“Do you want me to…?” Jaime made a useless gesture with his hands, but Sansa caught the idea. She gave a second look to the maid’s room, but nodded, turning to let Jaime reach the back of the dress. It only took him a second to unhook the laces, and Sansa clutched the front to her chest as the dress came loose.

Sansa had half-expected him to strip the dress off of her, but he stopped once the laces were half undone. She turned her head to find him stepping back to the table and scurried behind her screen. Keeping one eye on the open side of it, she quickly dressed in a thick nightgown and drew her robe over her shoulders before returning to Jaime. He didn’t appear to have moved since she left. Sansa sat across from him and took up her own glass, pleased to note that he hadn’t yet finished his own.

If, much later, Sansa fell asleep with her body pressed against his, she could hardly be blamed. She had once dreamed of brave knights and handsome princes, and crippled or no, Jaime was brave and kind and handsome. He did not love her any more than she loved him, but he treated her better than all the rest of King's Landing combined, save for the girl who had taken her place as queen and the Lannister dwarf. 

The day of her wedding, she had been given a letter from her mother, telling her to do her duty. Robb had sold her to end his war, but hadn't had the decency to walk her down the aisle. Her Stark cloak had been saved from the floor by her husband, not by the king who was a poor stand in for her father. The Starks had traded her for Northern peace, and so could no longer blame her for looking out for her own happiness.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to handle the Purple Wedding, if only to highlight the differences. 
> 
> Sansa's been neglected and abused so much, she takes Jaime's minor offerings as great gifts. Small jewels, fitting clothing, and a place with the rest of the Lannisters during a wedding are things the wife of the heir to Casterly Rock should consider basic respect.


	5. Mother of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dornish arrive in Slaver's Bay.

2/27/300

“My Queen? The man who came into harbor yesterday has arrived,” Daenerys nodded to Grey Worm. The Unsullied had taken it upon himself to be her personal guard when the latest attacks had begun, and although no one had been foolish enough to attack her in her throne room with Drogon present, she appreciated the gesture. Beside her, Missandei shifted uncomfortably, but made no protest. Dany was glad of her company through the long hours of court. The girl was only two-and-ten, but she would be invaluable if these men didn’t share a common tongue with Dany.

“I’ll see him now,” the Unsullied commander turned and vanished out the door. Shortly thereafter, the main doors opened, allowing entrance to two people. The male was short and stocky, no more than nine-and-ten. His skin and eyes and hair were brown and his smile was easy. He seemed almost nervous, but his eyes did not stray from her face, which was unusual among her petitioners. If he was handsome, the girl at his side was twice again as beautiful. She was short as well, her skin olive-hued and her eyes and hair dark. Her smile was fierce, and only widened when she saw Drogon’s sleeping form curled against her throne.

“Queen Daenerys,” Dany was somewhat surprised that it was the woman who spoke, her male companion merely following her lead as they bowed deeply. She spoke quickly, with a definite accent which Dany remembered, but could not place, “I am Arianne Martell and this is my brother, Quentyn.”

She sat forward at that, “rise,” she commanded briefly, searching the woman’s face. Had this been the face Rhaegar had known? The face that Rhaenys would have inherited? Dany would have been of a similar age to Rhaegar's babe, had he lived, “My brother Rhaegar married a woman named Elia Martell,” Viserys had remembered little of her, but she had born Rhaegar two children and she had been kind. Ser Barristan would know more.

“She was my aunt, your Grace,” Arianne’s gaze had left Drogon, now, and she looked Dany in the eyes. “My father has sent us her on her behalf. He wants vengeance for Elia and for her children. For little Rhaenys and the babe Aegon.”

The names of her niece and nephew made Dany’s heart clench. She tried not to think of her family, stuck in Meereen as she was. Her hands tightened, hidden in her skirts. Behind her, Drogon stirred, woken by her emotion, “your father?” 

“Yes, my Queen. Prince Doran Martell of Dorne. Princess Elia's eldest brother. He wishes you to marry my brother to seal an alliance. We have fifty thousand swords and spears to pledge to your cause. We will help you take your father’s throne from the bastard king Joffrey.”

 _“Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun’s son and the mummer’s dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying.”_ Quaithe had told her, yet she needed allies, Westerosi allies, if she meant to take the Iron Throne. She looked to Ser Barristan at her side, his grip easy on his sword hilt, and he nodded in answer to her.

“House Martell is ancient and noble, they were kings before Aegon Targaryen landed. They have been leal friends to House Targaryen for more than a century. I had the honor of serving with Princess Arianne’s great-uncle, Lewyn Martell, in your father’s Kingsguard. He gave his life for your brother Rhaegar at the Trident, fighting Ser Lyn Corbray although he was already dying. He was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Prince Doran’s children are of the same blood, if it please your Grace.”

“I see,” she looked back to the siblings. Arianne’s eyes were bright, but Quentyn looked more hesitant now that the dragon was awake, “You come with a fleet?”

“No, your Grace. My father did not know your resources and Sunspear has never been a sea power. If we send him a message, he will buy you ships, or pay for them to be built. We will see you and your dragons across the Narrow Sea.”

Daenerys stood, her skirts cold against her skin, her men stepping forward instantly. Drogon shook himself awake as she left him, blinking wearily at Missandrei as she moved to follow. Then he lay his head back down and huffed loudly, annoyed at her leaving, but seeing no reason to expand the energy to get up unless bidden to. She made her way down the steps and stood before the Martells. “Why does your father want to marry you to me?” She asked of Quentyn, who had spoken nothing. Daenerys herself would not allow another to make a marriage for her, why would this boy? “When I take the Iron Throne, I mean to name my daughter Rhaego my heir.”

“Tywin Lannister murdered Elia’s children, and Robert married his daughter. The bastard king’s mother. They were my cousins, but they were Rhaegar’s children too,” his voice was firm and pleasant, and when she looked into his eyes they were kind. Yet he had not answered her question.

“Do you wish to see my dragons?” The Martell siblings exchanged glances, Arianne eager and Quentyn wary. Quentyn opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off.

“We can see one now,” Arianne said, gaze lingering over Drogon’s black mass.

“I have two more, beneath the pyramid here,” Dany answered, looking at Quentyn.

“We would be honored, your Grace.”

“Come with me,” she led them outside, toward the pyramid where she kept her dragons captive. The air was cold, but Dany ignored it, the dragon pit would be hot. Under Ser Barristan’s orders, the Unsullied organized quickly. Two found torches at the entrance to the pyramid, and went before them. Two more came behind, having found their torches along the way. Behind the Martells, Ser Barristan followed with a tight grip on his sword hilt.

As they came, a roar sounded from below, startling the Martells. “The dragons know when she is near,” Ser Barristan explained, and Daenerys looked back to find the Martells standing near to each other. Arianne had wrapped her arm through Quentyn’s, but neither sibling hesitated in following her. Perhaps they understood her intent.

“They are my children. Come,” she took Arianne by the hand and led her to the door of the pit where the smaller dragons were confined.

“Remain outside,” she instructed the Unsullied and Ser Barristan, and only the knight looked disapproving. He worried, but they would not be long, “the Prince will protect us. Might I have your whip?”

The Unsullied handed it over, and she offered it to Quentyn before she led the Martell siblings down the last set of stairs to the dragons. The dragons looked up at them as they came, eyes burning. Viserion had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat. Rhaegal’s chains were gone as well, but he was gnawing on the carcass of a bull. As they neared them, Viserion dropped from the roof, landing beside its sibling. “The white one is Viserion, the green is Rhaegal. I named them for my brothers.”

“They are dragons.” Arianne breathed, staring in awestruck amazement from Dany’s side. Drogon was larger and closer than his siblings were, but he had also been asleep. Her smile was gone, but Dany lifted her head, proud of the creatures in the pit.

“So am I. I have sworn to marry only those who can ride my dragons. Would you like to try, Prince Quentyn?” 

“No,” her voice was frightened now. The bold girl in the throne room was afraid, and she reached for her brother, “Quentyn, stay here. What do you know of dragons?”

“What does any man know of dragons?” Daenerys blinked at the boy. She had expected this to be over. Perhaps she would accept Dorne’s help, but she must deal with Meereen first. Westeros had no slaves, and the Iron Throne would not leave. Having this Martell boy chasing her hand wouldn’t help her win Meereen.

Dany’s heart dropped as Quentyn moved forward, looking between the green feasting on his bull and the more curious white, “Viserion!”

The white dragon looked to him. Dany felt a stirring of pride that her child knew its name, but the dragon’s gaze turned past him and lingered on the her. Dany resisted the urge to call after the prince, which could startle the dragons. Would the Prince of Dorne refuse her aid if she had his son killed right after he arrived? She could not find her voice. Qaithe had said to mistrust this man, but there was no need to kill him. The walls of the pit were black and grey, evidence of dragonfire. How did he not know enough to be afraid? Viserion’s eyes were lakes of molten gold and smoke rose from its nostrils. It had turned the brick walls into ash with his fire. Burned the thick chains and broken the collar on its sibling's neck. Arianne’s hand wrapped tightly around hers and Daenerys did not turn her away.

“Down!” The prince moved slowly toward Viserion, and the dragon stared at him, then made to move back. Relief flooded Dany. She had trained her dragons around many people, and they were usually fairly tame. She inhaled to call to Quentyn, but the prince laid a lash across the dragon’s snout and Dany wanted to scream at him. For his own safety or Viserion’s, she did not know. “Down, down, down!” 

“Quentyn!” Arianne’s voice was dim in the pit, but he turned, and Rhaegal stood behind him, muzzle only a foot from the prince. He breathed out, and Quentyn moved to shield his eyes. A woman screamed, she or Arianne, Daenerys did not know. The whip was on fire. Then his hand, his robe, his hair, and Ser Barristan was there, shouting. He tried to drag her away, but Arianne fought him, twisting from his grip, screaming for her brother. She twisted free from Dany’s hand and ran for her brother. Dany’s eyes never strayed from the scene. 

The prince dropped to the floor, rolling almost into Viserion. Arianne kicked the dust and ash of the dragonpit onto the flames, dropping to her knees beside him, and the flames went out. He couldn’t still be alive. Dragonfire was so hot it killed instantly, she had seen it. He would not live more than a moment. Viserion growled, coming closer to the pair, and Dany’s blood froze. She had underestimated the bravery of the Westerosi, it seemed. She should have brought Drogon.

Quentyn was still on the ground, curled into himself and his blackened clothes, but Arianne rose. In one hand, she clutched the whip that Quentyn had dropped. It was blackened from Rhaegal's fire, but it was still intact. She turned on the approaching white and mimicked her brother’s action. “Back! Get back!”

The dragon paused, and to Dany’s astonishment, it took an unsteady step away from Quentyn’s still form. Arianne advanced, cracking the whip, and Viserion cowered before her. Dany was dimly aware that Ser Barristan had released her arm, was staring with her at the scene before them with the same amazed horror she was.

Quentyn’s screaming had stopped as the dragon was pushed back, but Dany had long forgotten the burned prince. Arianne was reaching for the dragon’s spines, and she drug herself onto the white’s back. Under her, Viserion screamed, but Arianne reached forward, for the dragon’s neck, for the collar to the chains that Daenerys had once locked around her child’s neck. She pulled at the pin there. What was left of it fell to the ground, and Viserion roared in victory. Arianne cracked the whip again, and Ser Barristan pulled Dany aside, falling to the floor with her, as the princess directed the dragons past them, Rhaegal falling in behind its sibling in their dash for freedom.

Ser Barristan rushed forward the moment the dragons were past them, kneeling beside the prince. Dany followed, and as the knight turned the man, she saw the burns on his arms and face. Quentyn groaned weakly, and Dany looked up to the crumbling ceiling and dead bull. She gripped Ser Barristan’s arm. “Bring him. We must find his sister.”

“He is badly injured. He needs a master.”

“Here?” He relented, then, and Dany helped him pick the smaller man up. They hadn’t made it half-up the stairs when two Unsullied appeared. One helped the knight with the unconscious prince. The other stopped before Dany herself, “my Queen, the dragons! They have escaped!”

“With the Dornish princess nonetheless,” Dany noted, but she was more afraid than angry. They had only been here three days and she had only known them for an hour, but she liked the Dornishwoman. She hoped Viserion had not harmed her.

Arianne had only been through the maze once, but when Dany reached the outside, the dragons had come before them. The Unsullied shouted at her and at the dragons and at each other, all at once, as she darted out of the pyramid. High above she could make out her children, and she could see the tiny speck on Viserion’s back that must be Arianne.

“That is the princess. Her brother is badly injured. We must find her,” she called, “ _Grey Worm! Bring horses! We must find the prince!_ ”

Her orders did not take long to carry out. The Unsullied carried Quentyn to safety while she, Ser Barristan, Jhogo, and Aggo, set off in the direction the dragons had gone, followed by marching Unsullied. Rhaegal remained in the air, but Viserion had already landed. They managed to track him from Rhaegal’s first landing, and once close Viserion’s white scales were hard to miss. Arianne dropped from the top of a building almost onto them. Her clothes were darkened by ash, but she was unharmed. She clung to the dragon’s scales and clutched the whip against it's spines.

At the sight of her, Dany flung herself to the ground and rushed forward, Viserion’s head came around, but he only huffed warm air at her. Arianne dropped from the dragon’s back and came to meet her. The dragon made no move to harm her either, but when Dany’s bloodriders tried to advance, he snarled at them. Arianne was sobbing, and as Dany reached her, Arianne cried out, “my brother! Is Quentyn alive?”

“He is burned, but he will live,” Dany and Arianne clung to each other as Viserion curled around them. “I am sorry that I let him approach them. They can be wild. That is why I had to lock them away.”

 “I thought I’d have to tell father he was dead!” Arianne admitted, “He’s only a boy. I did not mean to steal your dragon, only to get them away.” Arianne’s fear had changed into exaltation, “will you marry my brother now?”

Dany laughed, “I would marry you, but I cannot marry him. It is said that only the union of dragonriders can produce more dragonriders.”

“I did not mean to release them, but she did not like being trapped. I didn’t know-“ she paused, but Dany shook her head.

“It is my fault,” Dany admitted. She had thought Quentyn a coward and a distraction. “I meant to frighten you away, but instead I have made you a dragonrider. After your father has found ships and I have settled with Meereen, perhaps I will marry a Dornishman.”

“Perhaps we can help with Meereen, our mother is of Essos,” Arianne offered. She looked back to Viserion. “Will you take her back to the pits?”

“No,” Dany reached to rub Viserion’s muzzle, “she is yours now, as you have ridden her. Perhaps Rhaegal must go back, it is too dangerous to be left without control.”

“Mine?” Arianne looked to the dragon again, “you would give me a dragon?”

“I give you nothing. You claimed her. A dragon can only have one rider,” behind them, Viserion followed, meeker than it had been before. The horses started but it did not bother them, the dragon had eyes only for Arianne.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always subscribed to the theory that Quentyn Martell didn't die. He had time to think/scream/see himself on fire. Kraznys mo Nakloz, the animals the dragons killed, and the Windblown all survived only a moment. Dragonfire is hot enough to melt brass. The leather whip would need very hot fire to set it on fire (like, 3000F). Either he would have died instantly, or the whip would not be on fire. I always believed GRRM was implying he led the dragons out of their pit, because how else would they find their way out of the maze?
> 
> Instead, I have the oil in the whip and his clothes setting on fire. His outer robe is burned off, but he managed to prevent damage to most of his body. His hands will be burned and he has burns on his lower face and no hair.
> 
> So we have an earlier arrival of Arianne/Quentyn by ship and a living Quentyn.


	6. The Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has a son with Cersei too, but those never felt like his.

4/19/300

For all that he was the favorite child, Jaime had not always agreed with his father.

Unlike his sister, Jaime did not easily defy Tywin. Cersei had fought Tywin over everything from the death of their mother to the day she married Robert, even though she rarely won. Afterward she had settled for arguing with Robert, although he was more violent than their father. Jaime still well remembered the worst of those arguments, they rivaled those between Aerys and Rhaella.

Cersei was a queen now, cruel and powerful, but she had not always been so. Once she had been a child at her mother’s side, who tried her feet in Joanna’s soft, too-large slippers and who’s greatest desire was her mother’s beautiful red-and-gold wedding dress. That had changed with their mother’s death. Jaime knew that his father felt lost after her death, but he had always suspected that it was Cersei who first blamed Tyrion for her beloved mother’s death. She had hated the babe since the first time they had snuck into the nursery and peered into his cradle. Tywin had explained that Joanna had died birthing him, but Jaime had not even considered that Tyrion was to blame for his lady mother’s death. Before Jaime had known what was happening, Cersei had swept the babe from his cradle and tried to dash his head against the floor. Her scream of _“little monster!”_ brought the wet-nurse into the room to find Cersei kicking her twin viciously. Jaime had caught the babe’s head and body in his hands and used his own body as a shield against Cersei’s fury. Tywin had been furious. It was one of the few times he had heard his father raise his voice, making himself heard over Cersei’s hysterical wailing, he had told them that Tyrion was not to blame for Joanna’s death. Jaime had thought his father furious, but now he knew that Tywin could forgive his golden daughter’s attempt on the dwarf’s life. It was Jaime’s bruises that angered him the most, that and Cersei’s shameful behavior.

Even having spent most of his life in the Kingsguard, Jaime knew that his family was not a happy one. He loved his father and siblings, but he was not blind. He adored his Cersei. She was more than his sister, she was his soul’s other half, but he was not blind to all of her faults. She was willful and ambitious, she had wanted to marry Rhaegar, and she had married Robert willingly, despite all of Jaime’s warnings. She thought of herself as a female Tywin, all quick cunning and Castamere, but Jaime had known her since they shared their mother’s womb. Cersei’s emotions ruled her. He loved his father as well, but he knew that Tywin’s favoritism was not just because he was to be his heir. For all his father’s political aptitude and battle prowess, he was blinded by his position. He trusted his guards, far more than Aerys had ever trusted Jaime. He loved Jaime most because he felt that neither a woman nor a dwarf were suitable to lead the Lannisters. He would not love Jaime half so much had he three healthy sons. Tywin, like Aerys, ruled through fear, and so would be turned on the moment he was vulnerable.

Jaime shook his head to clear it, giving the half-full wine glass in his hand a baleful look, before setting it aside. He had been in Sansa’s chambers all night, had even ordered away the maids when they came with food several hours earlier. Pycelle had washed Sansa’s wounds, bandaged the open ones and rubbed a cream smelling of herbs into her bruises, then left them. He had bid Jaime to sleep, as there was nothing he could do for Sansa. Had his wife not been bloody and beaten only feet away, Jaime would have seen him out with his sword. As it was, he let his glare hurry Pycelle to the door.

The true interruption came when three sharp knocks came at the door. Jaime ignored it, glancing to Sansa to see if the noise could awaken her, but then the door cracked open. The knight was either brave or stupid. “Cousin, Lord Tywin sent me to watch over Lady Sansa while he speaks with you.”

Jaime knew the voice. He had been one of the squires about the Rock when Tyrion was a boy, and his father was his lady mother’s brother. “Enter, Ser Daven.”

His cousin closed the door carefully behind him and came close, eyes drifting over Sansa’s bed and Jaime’s wine in one glance. His cousin wore his full armor, sword at his side and helm in his hand.  “Lord Tywin sends for you. He has discovered who attacked your wife. I will sit with her while you go.”

Jaime glanced at Sansa’s still body. What he felt for her was not love, but he could not deny that he was coming to care for the girl. A girl she was, for all her silken armor and sweet words, for all his father’s insistence. She reminded him a little of Cersei when she was small, and more of Tyrion as a boy. He had promised to protect her, and had failed even in that. Even so, Ser Daven was his first cousin and a good knight. He would die to protect his charge, which was more than most would say of Jaime. “You’ll protect her?”

“As I would my own sisters, from even the king himself,” Jaime collected his sword from his side and glanced back as he left. Daven sat in the chair opposite his, farther from Sansa’s side, and rested one hand on his sword hilt as he stared into the fire. Jaime checked that the door was properly shut behind him and nodded to the Lannister guards as they parted to let him pass.

He had not felt this alarmed when walking through the Red Keep in many years. Since he plunged his sword through the Mad King’s heart. Now he again eyed the noble lords as they passed and reached for his sword when guards glanced toward him as he passed, feeling worse than before when his golden hand found nothing. Now the guards wore stags rather than dragons and the nobles would swear their loyalty to the Baratheons rather than Targaryens. Jaime saw little difference. If they were willing to murder his son, they would kill him without a second thought. He doubted even Cersei’s protection could control the worst of Joffrey’s violent whims.

He passed a set of Lannister guards as he came to the staircase in the Tower of the Hand. There were two more at the top, and more still outside his father’s solar. Tywin was staring out a window as the guard announced Jaime, hands laced behind his back, but he wasted no time. As Jaime took the seat opposite his father’s desk, Tywin came back to his desk. He almost looked his age, but he was fresh and his clothes new, and he looked as fierce as Jaime had ever seen him.

“We must speak about the death of your son,” Tywin offered Jaime a paper. “I’ve drafted orders for the deaths of Ser Meryn and Ser Boros. Cersei will sign them as Queen Regent, and it will be carried out today. The rest of the Kingsguard have solid alibis. Cersei will raise Balon Swann to Lord Commander, and Richard Horpe and Lyle Crakehall to the Kingsguard.”

“Swann’s likely your best choice,” Jaime agreed. “Crakehall will be no worse than the rest of them, but Horpe fought for Stannis recently.”

“He cannot fight for Stannis now. I have offered him the position in an effort to bring the Stormlands to heel while we name their new lord.”

“Fair enough. What of Joffrey?”

“He has admitted that he was behind the attack on your wife. He claimed he was angry that I had taken his wife from him. _Everyone is mine to torment,”_ Tywin glared at the paper Jaime returned to him as if it had wronged him, “they didn’t fuck her, all three of them agree. It at least explains the injuries on the prostitutes. The Baratheon king murdering the Lannister heir. If he wasn’t the king I’d demand his head as well.”

“Joffrey is a Lannister. He’s Cersei’s son.” Jaime reminded him.

“Cersei married Robert Baratheon, making the boy a Baratheon. There’s certainly no trace of Lannister in his personality.” Jaime remembered Jaehaerys II and his sister-wife Shaera; their children, Mad Aerys and his sister-wife Rhaella. Perhaps they were lucky that two of the three children displayed ‘Lannister’ traits. “He’s Robert’s son, loud and reckless. His father started a war for a woman, I shouldn’t be surprised his son has no self-control.”

Jaime had no wish to continue this line of thought, he would quickly infuriate either his father or Cersei, perhaps both, and it wouldn’t solve the problem at hand. “When will you execute Trant and Blunt?” 

“Joffrey’s decided on next week,” Tywin’s hand went to the Hand’s pin on his chest, “I’ve decided that after lunch in front of the court will do. I expect he means to give them time to take the Black or to convince his mother that they shouldn’t be punished. He himself confessed their crimes, there is no reason to wait.”

Three sharp knocks sounded at the door, one of the guards opening it and stepping inside with a bow. “Lord Tywin, Ser Jaime, Queen Cersei has arrived.”

Cersei hardly waited for Tywin’s approval before she shoved past the guard and stormed into the room, her gown too fine to have just heard her nephew died. The guard closed the door quickly behind her. Cersei ignored the empty chairs in favor of standing at the far side of them and folding her hands in front of her. “Lady Margaery is refusing to attend court because she’s afraid the beheading of the Kingsguard will upset her. She’s worried about her babe.”

“It’s only natural, it’s her first child,” Tywin agreed easily.

“Joffrey decided that the execution would be next week. In private. To spare their families”

“What about our family, Cersei? The son Sansa was carrying would have been Lord of Casterly Rock one day and his cousin murdered him,” Robert had only struck Cersei once during her pregnancies, and Cersei had sobbed for days, until even Robert felt guilty. He had brought her flowers and sent for her favorite cousin from the Westerlands. It was made no better by the fact that Cersei had insisted Jaime help her rid herself of the babe. Robert had been depressed for weeks, he had even abandoned his whoring for nearly a month. Jaime had kept his distance from the children as Cersei had requested, but he had kept an eye on them, closer than he would have if they were only his sister’s children. He knew of Joffrey’s worse tendencies, the ones Cersei turned away from, the ones that tormented Myrcella and Tommen for years.

“That wolf-whore is not a part of our family!” Cersei turned on him, snarling.

“The babe inside her was,” under Tywin’s gaze both siblings froze. Jaime settled back into his seat and Cersei looked away, “Joffrey has shamed House Lannister. The Kingsguard will not be given the opportunity to escape or to take the Black. They will not be allowed to hide their crimes when House Lannister was publically shamed.” 

“Sansa Stark was publically shamed.”

“We discussed this earlier, there is no need to discuss it again. Are you refusing to sign the orders?” Cersei took the offered paper from Tywin’s hand and skimmed her eyes down the page. Her frown deepened slowly, but she reached for the quill sitting in the ink pot on their father’s desk and signed the bottom.

“Kill them, then, so long as you leave Joffrey alone,” Cersei drew herself up, giving Jaime a dark look, before turning to leave. Jaime knew this tactic. Cersei could never defy Tywin directly and win, but he would let her slink away to nurse her wounds so long as he had what he wanted.

Tywin ignored his daughter’s exit, settling at his desk and plucking a scroll from the pile on his desk, setting it in front of him and collecting his quill from where Cersei had thrown it, “be at court an hour after lunch. That is long enough to bathe and dress.”

Jaime took the hint, standing from his seat and glancing down at his bloody clothes. The stares from guards and nobles alike made more sense now. “I want Ser Daven to serve as Sansa’s permeant sworn sword so long as she is in King’s Landing.”

“Very well. He will accompany you to Casterly Rock. So long as you are in King’s Landing, keep your sword on you,” Tywin warned, not looking up from his papers. Jaime took his leave, for he knew he would not get his father to explain his reasoning if he spent half the day with him.

He visited Sansa before he went to his own rooms, but she was still asleep. Her timid northern girl was examining her bandages, Ser Daven lept to his feet when Jaime opened the door, and Jaime was assured by both that Sansa’s condition had not changed. His eyes lingered for a moment on the fine rugs, now stained with Sansa and her son’s blood, but he could did not stay long.

After they were married, he and Sansa had been moved into adjoining rooms. As a wedding gift, he had ordered her rooms to be decorated in the colors of the Starks, had given Sansa white sheets and grey curtains and direwolf banners. He spent little enough time in her rooms, three nights and some hours in five moons, and he had wanted her to be as comfortable as could be managed, although the colorless room disturbed him. His own rooms were far brighter than Sansa’s own, so bright that Cersei had decorated hers in the same fashion after she had seen them. He had little to do with them, as Dorna had insisted on designing them as a surprise for him and a gift to Sansa, but he liked them well enough. As he opened the door to the familiar room, the scent of rosemary drifted out.

In the center of his rooms, a girl dressed in Lannister colors was testing a bath. She started as he entered, and as she glanced up Jaime recognized Joy, Gerion’s bastard daughter. She flushed sharply and began to explain, smoothing her dress down in her concern, but Jaime waved her off. Tywin’s guards or Ser Daven, or perhaps the girl had simply seen his clothing as he left. “Thank you, Joy. You can go back to Sansa now.”

She curtseyed deep, then scurried past him, back to Sansa’s door. Jaime waited only long enough to insure that the guards let the girl pass, then he bolted the door and turned to his bath. Joy must not have expected him so soon, for the water was scalding, but Jaime didn’t care quite so much as he would have yesterday, before he lifted his half-dead wife onto her bed at a maester’s bidding. He left his bloody clothes in a heap and slid into the water. Joy had laid out soaps and towels, and Jaime was glad of them as he scrubbed the filth from his skin.

His father had been right, he found. By the time he had gotten out of his bath and dressed properly for court, a maid had appeared with lunch. Jaime hardly had time to eat and arm himself before it was time. He knew well enough not to test an already-enraged Tywin. He checked on Sansa one last time, finding Ser Daven and Joy seated at the table, speaking softly. Sansa was still the same, but as Jaime left for court, he heard Joy close Sansa’s door and open his own behind him.

As he entered the throne room, he checked for his sword again. It was less useful on his right hip, but he would rather have some protection than none at all. Tywin’s eyes caught his as he entered, and although his father did not smile Jaime could sense the satisfaction. Joffrey was listening to some young nobleman as Jaime entered, Cersei at his left and Tywin at his right. He was leaning against the arm of the throne, scowling down at the nobleman. Jaime recognized his sigil, an erminois maunch on pink, it belonged to a bannerman of his father.

“Very well,” Joffrey had barely waited for the man to finish speaking. “My Lord Hand will see that you receive your sister.” He turned to the side, annoyance written on his face. “What’s next, then?”

The look on Tywin’s face would have frightened anyone who knew him well. His gaze flickered toward the court’s musician, who began to play a familiar tune. Half the court froze, the other half looking about as if expecting to be killed where they stood. Cersei stilled in her seat, looking toward the door, and so Jaime followed her gaze. “Bring in Ser Meryn and Ser Boros.”

Joffrey stood from his chair then, turning on his grandfather, his bored demeanor suddenly gone, “what is the meaning of this?”

“These men have committed crimes,” Tywin’s didn’t flinch as Joffrey approached.

“I have commanded that this be done privately.”

“Your regent and I have determined that this is the best way for these men to receive justice. Terrible crimes against the Great Houses cannot go unanswered, unless we wish the realm to descend into war,” Joffrey’s head snapped around to see his men being led in, and as they cleared the crow, Jaime had his first good look at them.

The men were bloody and bruised, and it gave Jaime satisfaction to know that the Lannister guards had been quick to defend their future Lady’s honor. Chains were wrapped around their ankles and manacles were locked on their wrists. While the court recoiled around him, Jaime smirked as the distinct scent of the Black Cells reached him.

“How dare you!” Joffrey’s hands had balled into fists. “Mother, you sent my men to the Black Cells and ordered them beheaded in front of the entire court!” 

“I am the Queen Regent, and you come of age I am responsible for the kingdom. Letting men from minor houses murder the heir to one of the Great Houses could incite war. The Black Cells was where they belonged.” Cersei knew enough to realize that her father might abandon them if she presented anything less than a united front. The court was gradually becoming more nervous, as a guard placed a block on the ground and stepped aside so Ser Balon could stand next to it. 

While Joffrey and his mother argued, Tywin produced the scroll he had made Cersei sign and began to read. “ Ser Boros of House Blunt, Ser Meryn of House Trant, you have been condemned of the murder of the heir to House Lannister. In the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, I sentence you to death. Ser Boros, have you any last words?”

“Halt!” Joffrey stepped away from the throne, into the center of the room, Cersei standing to follow him, “I command you to stop!”

“Perhaps the king should not be present,” Tywin noted, “he is quite young and he was very close to these men.”

“I am not going anywhere; I am the king!” Cersei had taken her son by the shoulder, whispering sharply in his ear. Jaime was too far away to know what was being said, but Joffrey stilled to listen to her.

“I didn’t mean to hurt the babe! I didn’t realize…the Stark girl was a traitor, the king said-“ Ser Boros dissolved into sobs. Jaime had no idea what had been promised if the men left Joffrey out of the death of his son, but it was enough to keep even Blunt’s mouth closed in his terror. His sobs echoed through the throne room as Ser Balon took his head. One of the younger noblewomen fainted, and a young squire fell to the floor retching.

“Ser Meryn, have you any last words?” Ser Meryn did not need to be dragged to the block. He stepped forward, kicking his former Sworn Brother’s body to the side.

“Give my body to my brother, even if you keep my head. I have ever been loyal to my liege lord.” He knelt and died without a sound. Someone collected the squire and ushered him out of the court. The noblewoman was revived. Joffrey stormed away with his mother in tow, and if Jaime hadn’t known better he would say the boy was living up to the words of his house.

With Joffrey gone, Tywin seated himself on the Iron Throne, “have this mess cleaned and send for the next petitioner.”

Jaime sat through several petitioners, from a Westerlands girl who’s husband had refused her company in favor of a whore while keeping her father’s hands to a lad from the Crownlands who’s father had been murdered. Tywin handled each with the attention each was due, and Jaime waited until late evening when the crowd had dispersed and Tywin had made his exit to leave. One did not want to be seen coming to court only for the executions.

He might have visited Tyrion in his nook in the library or found his father in his solar, but Jaime went back to his rooms instead. Ser Daven and Sansa’s maids were still present, but there was a change in the room. A squire in Lannister colors had joined Ser Daven and someone had removed the blood-soaked rugs and replaced Sansa’s blankets.

“Cousin Willem, it’s good to see you again,” Jaime’s welcome was tired, but Willem’s smile spread and he stood from his seat. “Have you come to squire for Ser Daven?”

“Lord Tywin thought I would do well with family, after all that happened,” Willem agreed merrily. His gaze slipped to Sansa and he suddenly looked guilty.

“I mean to retire,” Daven explained, “so I sent for Willem. He’s well enough with a sword, and he has the guards outside if he needs them.”

“I will protect the Lady Sansa with my life.”

Jaime nodded, but any further response was cut off when Joy padded back into the room, having heard his voice, “did you tell Ser Jaime that Lady Sansa woke?”

“Did you send for Pycelle?”

“Yes, my Lord. He was here, but my Lady had fallen asleep by then. He said it was a good sign and changed her bandages before he left. Jeyne and I changed the sheets while he was moving her so we didn’t have to upset her condition by doing it later.”

“You did well,” Jaime assured her. “Willem will stay with Sansa so you and Jeyne can sleep without having to guard her.” He looked to the squire, “I’ll be in the next room over. Send for me if anything happens.”

He and Davos made their farewells and the knight went to eat, while Jaime retired to his own rooms. He closed the door behind him and reached to unbuckle his sword, but as he noticed the lit candles, he grasped the hilt instead. A soft laugh sounded from the bed, and unbidden his body relaxed as he recognized his visitor. He rested his sword against the wall and moved to lean over her.

“What are you doing here?” Even in the dim light he could see the curves of her face, and he reached for the dark bruise along the side. “What happened?”

“Joffrey didn’t like his orders being disobeyed.”

“He hit you?” Jaime wished he had his hand back. He had killed one king with it and he could kill another, surely kinslaying was no worse than kingslaying. No worse than striking one's own mother.

“He’s upset, Jaime. First father convinces him to set the wolf-girl aside for Margaery Tyrell, then he pawns her off on you, and then he forbids Joffrey from seeing his own wife. I think being angry over his orders being defied is understandable,” Cersei squirmed against him, gripping his arms and trying to drag him closer. “He liked his Kingsguard.”

“If Robert had struck you, would you forgive him so easily?”

“Joffrey apologized, he said he hadn’t meant to,” Cersei assured him, giving up his arms to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. “He promised to make it up to me. We’re family, after all, and we must protect each other. I didn’t tell him about your babe, Jaime, I swear I didn’t. I swear on our soul.” 

Jaime knew he should send her away, but Cersei was naked beneath the red sheets of his bed, and Jaime had to kiss her to muffle her cry when his hands touched her skin. He had loved Cersei for all of his life, he had given her three children. What man could give up his soul’s other half for a forced marriage to a child, for what Sansa’s body hinted and promised, Cersei’s was. The soft curves and skilled hands pulled him down, and when they were finished he curled beside her, relishing in her warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I might reformat a few chapters soon. I did a lot of background work and got very sick.
> 
> We might get a few unusual chapter soon.


	7. The Old Lion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months before Sansa lost her son, Lady Olenna Tyrell interrupted Tywin's lunch.

2/14/300

In all three of Cersei’s children, Tywin could see Lannister blood.

Of the three, Joffrey looked most like his mother. His hair fell in Cersei’s soft waves, shaded to match Joanna’s gold. He had Cersei’s pale green eyes and the fine bridge of her nose. One couldn’t look at the future Baratheon king and not see his Lannister origins, yet he had none of Cersei’s ambition or intelligence. He blustered until confronted with actual danger, screamed when subtlety was required, and when he should show pity he spat hatred. He showed no traits of the Lannister house, no matter what Stannis or Robert might claim. Robert had wanted to call him Steffon, but he was on the hunt when his heir was born and so his mother had given him a Westerlands name.

Myrcella resembled her mother as well. She might have been her in miniature, with the same shade of gold in her hair and full lips and high cheekbones. Yet her hair was curlier than her mother’s, more like Joanna’s, and her eyes were aquamarine, Baratheon blue mixing with Lannister green. She had Robert’s courage and Cassana’s kindness, Cersei’s will and Joanna’s intelligence. When she spoke with Tywin, she was curious under her courtesies, and her sweet smile and bright eyes reminded him of Joanna herself. She was easily Tywin’s favorite of the three, if only because she knew her place in the world. 

Tommen had more of Robert in him. Although very young, the straightness of his hair and the thinness of his lips didn’t belong to the Lannisters, even Tywin’s hair carried a faint wave. His emerald eyes and golden hair did, and although his hair was far paler than his siblings his eyes came straight from Joanna. He was thicker than his siblings, and he must get that from Baratheons as well, if one considered how Robert looked as he aged. He was as good-hearted as Joanna, far more than even a young Cersei, but his dedication and sweetness came from Steffon and his love of creatures from Cassana. He was not as bold as a Lannister should be, but he was still young.

The younger two were sweet enough. Myrcella hid her sharpness behind smiles and Tommen had no cruelty in him. Joffrey was different. Tywin remembered Robert’s face when he lay Rhaenys and Aegon before Robert; Ned Stark remembered too, or he would not be so concerned about the girl sold to a horselord. Joffrey looked as he had far too often, and the older he became the worse he acted. Of late, he had taken to open cruelty in court, reminding Tywin far too much of Aerys. Thus Tywin did not have to demand further explanation as Olenna Tyrell fell into her tirade. He knew what the woman meant.

Tywin had settled down to lunch with Jaime and Tyrion, a Lannister family dinner to discuss Jaime’s new wife and Tyrion’s new position, when three sharp knocks sounded at the door. One of the door guards opened it, the Queen of Thorns visible behind him, and announced their guest’s presence.

“Lord Tywin, Lady Olenna Tyrell is here to see you. He says it’s urgent.” At Tywin’s nod, he stepped aside to allow the elder woman’s entrance. 

“Lady Olenna. What’s brought you to my solar so early?” Tywin rarely took time to speak privately with his sons, and for his lunch to be interrupted meant that it was likely important.

The Tyrell woman didn’t pause for courtesies, nor did she seem bothered by the numerous Lannisters in the room. She simply sat in the chair nearest the door and affixed her sharp gaze on Tywin, beginning without preamble, “I won’t have it. My Margaery broke her fast this morning with Lady Alerie and I. Her mother found bruises on her, and I sent for a maester.” 

“Perhaps the king was a bit overeager, but I don’t see how that is my concern. The king must have an heir,” Tywin had insured Cersei knew what was required of her before she married Robert, and Margaery should have been given the same information. Baratheon men weren’t known for their kindness in bed. Robert’s whores were known to come from his rooms with bruised hips and legs, and Cersei had carried any complaints quietly to Pycelle rather than bother her father.

Olenna drew herself up to meet Tywin’s gaze, “my granddaughter has been choked. She has fingerprints on her neck, red, purple, and yellow, just the size of the king’s hands. If it had been anyone else, I’m certain she’d have gone straight to the guards and the maester. How does attempting to murder the queen bring forth heirs?”

Tywin didn’t have an answer for that. He looked to Jaime, who had spent far more time in King’s Landing than he, but, for once, Jaime was drinking deeply from his wine and did not meet his gaze. He looked to Tyrion then, who frowned back, and Tywin didn’t need to voice his question to know the answer. Cersei had come to him only once in protest of Robert’s actions. He had wanted to foster Joffrey at Winterfell, where he hoped the boy might learn manners and find a bride in Sansa Stark. Perhaps it would be better for all of them if Joffrey had gone. Ned Stark was an honorable fool, but he would have impressed upon Joffrey the importance of family and honor, and taught him to rule. All else could have been shown to him later. Now it was far too late. The Seven Kingdoms would suffer another cruel king.

“I will speak to the king,” Tywin assured the furious woman, “I will impress upon him the need for heirs and explain the frailty of highborn ladies.”

“If he needs an outlet, we can have Baelish bring him a whore,” Tyrion mused. Tywin didn’t like the idea for it’s own sake. After Joanna’s death, he hadn’t touched a woman. Men too often listened to their lusts out of weakness.

“The king-“

Olenna cut him off, nodding briefly at Tyrion, “bring him ten whores a night for all I care, but he will not harm my granddaughter.” 

“Lady Olenna, the king needs a heir. I wish Lady Margaery no ill, but it is necessary for her to bear the king a son, if she can” Tywin noticed Jaime refill his glass out of the corner of his eye. He had never asked how badly Robert treated Cersei, but he knew that Jaime had heard Rhaella’s torment. Perhaps three battered queens were too many.

“That is something else we must discuss,” Olenna agreed, smiling, although her tone didn’t change, “when Maester Pycelle examined Margaery, he found she’s been pregnant around a fortnight.”

“And the bruises?”

“Less than a day old. They’re very vivid, I doubt they could have gone unnoticed yesterday,” Tywin nodded slowly. He paid little attention to the dress of women, but even he had noticed that Margaery preferred the loose, low-cut dresses common in Dorne and the Reach.

“I will insure the king is properly occupied and explain to him the delicate nature of babies in the womb,” Olenna seemed placated, settling back in his chair. Tywin had never thought the Lady of Thorns a true threat, but King’s Landing needed the food they brought, and the loyalty that food inspired made them dangerous. 

“Lady Alerie has suggested that we summon the maester from Highgarden. He was the only one who could help her through Willas and Margaery’s births, and if the new prince’s birth is as terrible as theirs was, he will be great help,” Olenna helped herself to a glass of wine, giving Tywin a moment to find his answer. To refuse the aid of a maester would be seen as odd. Refusing the battered queen anything that might keep an unborn prince safe would be foolish.

“I assure you, Maester Pycelle has tended to many births, including that of the king himself. Margaery is in no danger,” Olenna nodded amiably, taking a sip from her glass.

“I’m sure they’ll get along well. Maester Lomys will be here in just under three moons,” Olenna finished her wine and stood, smiling grimly at them, “I hope your talk with the king goes well. Otherwise, we may have to take more extreme measures to see to the prince’s safety.”

As she left, Tywin was left to consider that perhaps King Aerys had competition for the title of Mad King. Surely Cersei had explained to the boy the need for living wives and strong heirs. The queen retreating to Highgarden because of the brutality of the king was unacceptable, and House Tyrell seemed more than happy to leverage that. As Jaime drained his glass yet again, Tywin reached over the table and took the decanter of wine, placing it out of Jaime’s reach. This did have the unwanted effect of giving Tyrion two of them, but his younger son seemed determined to drink himself into an early grave either way. Better one of them stay sober enough to discuss the queen’s injury.

“Tyrion, you spend enough time in whorehouses,” the word left a foul taste in his mouth. He remembered well the whore his father had kept after his lady mother’s death, but better whores carry bruises than queens. “Have one sent to Joffrey tonight, in Queen Margaery’s place.”

“The last time I sent Joffrey whores he had them beat each other,” Tyrion noted. “I believe he hated Robert’s whoring, thought it disrespectful to Cersei.”

“Better dead whores than dead princes,” Tywin replied flatly. “I’ll assign a guard to the queen.”

“It won’t help,” Jaime hadn’t touched his meal since Lady Olenna entered. His smile was gone and his eyes were dull, when he looked at Tywin, he seemed to look through him, “what guard would dare refuse the king anything?”

“Perhaps you could assign Ser Lucion to her?” Tyrion mused. His idea wasn’t a bad one. The knight came from Lannisport and had served as a squire under Tywin himself. Right now, he was assigned as a guard at the Tower of the Hand, and had shown no reluctance to refuse admission to even the Kingsguard. King or no, he wouldn’t allow anyone to disobey Tywin’s direct orders.

“If Joffrey orders him to stand aside and he refuses, the Kingsguard will cut him down,” Jaime warned. “Ser Barristan once killed a Dornishman who stood between Princess Elia and King Aerys.”

“Ser Barristan is no longer a member of the Kingsguard, and those who remain will obey my orders or be dismissed from their positions as well. You forget, Joffrey is only three and ten. Until he comes of age, the Kingsguard must listen to Cersei, not Joffrey,” Tywin answered flatly. “If they cause the death of the future king, I will have their heads.”

“If only you can convince them of that.” Tywin waved his younger son off.

“Few men would risk death for the sake of a child of three and ten getting a woman,” Tywin summoned one of the guards from the door, “Ser Rollin, send for the Kingsguard. I’ll see them in my solar after lunch. Send for Ser Lucion Lannett as well.”

As the guard made his exit, Tyrion set his glass on the table and stood, “I’ll take that as our dismissal, father. I’ll go back to trying to make sense of Baelish’s books.”

“There was one more thing I wished to speak with you about. You remember Myrielle, Stafford’s daughter?” Tyrion paused, frowning.

“Yes, she’s our cousin.” Jaime had stopped as well, curious about the topic.

“I’ve sent for her. It’s time you found a wife.” Tyrion’s expression was almost comical, but Tywin waved past his stammered protest. “She’ll be here in half a moon’s turn; you’d best be ready to receive her. If she agrees to the match, I’ll see you married by year’s end.”

“If she agrees?” Jaime eyed Tywin uncertainly, “you never asked Cersei or I if we agreed, and you don’t seem to be giving Tyrion the choice. Why must Myrielle agree?”

“Her father wishes her to be happy,” her father worried about how the whoring dwarf would treat his prized daughter. “She will spend time at court, and if she finds Tyrion pleasing, the wedding will be held at Casterly Rock.”

“And if she doesn’t find me ‘pleasing’?” Tywin fixed his younger son with a hard look.

“You will court the girl as benefits a highborn lady. You will see no whores and keep your drinking to a minimum. Your children will be raised at Casterly Rock, I mean Myrielle to be one of Sansa’s ladies. If the Stark girl can’t run the Rock, Myrielle will be given her role.” Better for a Lannister to be in wait if Jaime’s Northern wife proved incapable of running a Southern seat.

It took Jaime to encourage Tyrion out of the room, his younger son seemingly torn between arguing and shock. Once the door had closed behind them, Tywin moved to his desk and began a letter, ignoring the maids who quickly cleaned away all evidence of the meal. By the time a guard knocked and announced Ser Lucion’s arrival, the room was clean and the maids gone. The knight stood in front of the desk as Tywin finished the document and marked it.

“Ser Lucion, I presume you’ve met Queen Margaery.”

“Yes, my lord. She’s very kind.” Tywin didn’t need to look up to see that the knight seemed interested.

“You’re being assigned to be her personal guard, along with her brother, Ser Loras. Will there be any problem with fulfilling this assignment?”

“No, my lord. I would be honored to be entrusted with protecting the queen.” Tywin appreciated men who could follow directions without asking questions, and Lucion had long been one of his favorite men.

“You are to keep her safe from harm, and follow her directions. You are not to leave her alone unless you are assured of her safety. No men are to be allowed to be in the same room as her without you, and that includes King Joffrey.” Ser Lucion paused, considering him.

“Are you ordering me to disobey the king, Lord Tywin?”

“I am ordering you to insure the king is not alone with Queen Margaery at any time. If the king protests this, bring the queen directly to me. If you don’t think you’re capable of this, I can find someone else to protect the queen.” Guarding the queen was a coveted position, particularly for a knight not of the Kingsguard.

“I will keep the queen safe.” Tywin rose to hand him the paper, giving the knight time to examine it.

“Good. This will insure that no one stops you. You are dismissed. Seek out the queen at once.” The knight bowed and made his exit. As he left, one of the door guards escorted in the Kingsguard. Tywin waited until they had lined up before his desk, but before he could speak, Meryn Trant opened his mouth. 

“Lord Tywin. The king commands we return to him as soon as possible.” Tywin stared at him until the knight looked away.

“Might I remind you, Ser Meryn, that the king does not yet rule the Seven Kingdoms? Until the day he comes of age, you owe your loyalty to the Queen Regent, who serves in his stead. It is in her authority that I have summoned you here.”

Tywin settled back at his desk, considering the men in front of him. Lord Commander Hightower, Oswell Whent, and Arthur Dayne had died out of loyalty to a dead prince, at a tower where there was nothing to defend but his ill mistress. Lewyn Martell had been bleeding from a mortal wound to his chest when he prevented Ser Lyn from rushing Rhaegar, saving his prince’s life with his last breath at the Battle of the Trident. Jonothor Darry had died at the Trident as well, killed by Robert on his way to Rhaegar, by all accounts. Jaime had argued fiercely against his removal from the position, relenting only when Cersei pleaded with him, and Ser Barristan had fled across the Narrow Sea to the last of the Targaryens rather than accept a hall and servants. Those had been men that Tywin would have trusted to guard a boy king. Men of bravery and intelligence, who would not have faltered in his defense nor bent to his every whim.

These men were not.

“Ser Loras, I will be assigning you to guard the queen. You are only to allow her out of your sight if you are completely sure of her safety. No men are to be allowed alone with her without you present, not Lord Tyrell and not King Joffrey. Is that clear?” To Tywin’s disgust, the rest of the Kingsguard turned slightly to look at Ser Loras. The Tyrell boy didn’t look away from Tywin.

“Yes, my lord. I will protect her with my life,” the boy’s eyes gleamed, and Tywin knew that he would follow this command with all his heart, not only out of duty. It was safer for the unborn prince if he did.

“The rest of you are to aid Ser Loras and Ser Lucion in the queen’s protection. If King Joffrey attempts to speak with the queen alone, you are not to support him. If he protests, come to me.”

“Are you ordering us to ignore the king’s orders?” The Lord Commander gripped the hilt of his sword and glowered.

“As I’ve said, Ser Meryn, the king is three and ten. You are to follow the Queen Regent’s orders above his until he comes of age, and these orders come from the Queen Regent. If you have difficulty understanding this, perhaps the Kingsguard is not a place for you. Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime’s dismissals show precedent for removing Kingsguard who can no longer fulfill their duties to the king.” The knight was not so foolish as to miss the implication. “If the queen comes to harm because of a member of the Kingsguard, I will have their head.

“Is this understood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we're back to Sansa and Jaime.


	8. Lady Lannister II

4/21/300

“Mother!” Her lady mother looked exhausted. She was reclined on pillows, for once in her private chambers, and covered in soft furs. Her usual practical dress was replaced with a heavy nightgown and her hair was loose around her shoulders. Sansa darted to her and gripped the furs to climb up the bed, sliding back as soon as she had started, but her father lifted her onto the bed. Sansa crawled to her her mother and embraced her.

“Careful, Sansa,” her father said, but her mother hugged her back just as tightly. Septa Mordane had told her that her mother would miss her too, but Sansa knew she had the baby, and had not quite believed it.

“I learned a new dance!” Sansa explained excitedly, “And I’m embroidering something for the babe.”

“Arya,” Robb was leaning over the cradle, looking down at the newborn. “Father said they named her Arya.”

“Do you want to hold her, Robb? Here, sit,” Robb’s eyes grew wide, but he rushed to sit in the suggested chair as their father lifted little Arya from her cradle. He positioned Robb’s hands and showed him how to make their little sister comfortable so she wouldn’t cry. 

“Can I hold her?” Sansa begged, and she knew by her mother’s smile that she was pleased.

“In a moment, Sansa,” she was watching Robb with the babe. Robb looked up to see Sansa staring down at him and began to get up.

“She can hold her! She’ll be better at it than me,” in Robb’s arms, the child stirred weakly.

“Here, Robb,” their father took the babe from him and brought her to the bed, “I’ll give her to Sansa.”

He placed the babe – Arya – in her arms, bringing one to the child’s head and the other to wrap around her body. He was explaining how to hold an infant, but Sansa found it almost instinctive. Unlike Sansa and Robb, Arya’s tuft of hair was as dark as their father’s, and although her eyes were cloudy blue, Sansa knew from her Septa that they could clear into their father’s grey. “Can I teach her to embroider, mother?”

“When she’s older, yes, if you do well with your own studies.”

 _Don’t talk about Lady Sansa as if you know her. She’s a proper lady, born of the Starks of_  
_Winterfell and married into the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. You’re a knight and nothing_  
_more, she didn’t chose this any more than you chose your lord father’s death._

“Lady Sansa?” she started, turning to find her half-brother staring at her from the edge of the clearing. He was not Robb and he was not mother, but she flung herself at him anyway. Jon stilled, and for a moment Sansa wondered if he would push her away, as her lady mother did when Jon was younger and had tried to hug her.

How could she blame him if he didn’t want to pray for his father’s wife to live?

Instead, his arms wrapped tightly around her and he let Sansa cry into his shoulder. He was taller than Robb, although both were two-and-ten, and unlike Robb he didn’t cry with her. Unlike Robb, he didn’t hide away in the training yard, hoping to be distracted from the pain. Once all of Sansa’s sobs were gone, he took her hand and led her back to the weirwood tree, kneeling in the snow beside her.

“Let us pray for Lady Catelyn and the babe together.”

_I’m sorry she lost the babe, but it’s better than dying herself. Ser Jaime can have more children, but dead  
wives produce no heirs. You and Lord Tywin both would do well to remember that._

“Sansa!” Bran is happy in a way only a boy of seven can be, clothes dusty and cobwebs in his hair, but he offers her a familiar flower and Sansa cannot help but to smile as she takes it. She knows it came from far above them, the winter rose was plucked from the towers she can see from her bedroom. She had watched it grow, coveting it, but not brave enough to go out and fetch it.

“Mother would be angry if she knew you were climbing again,” Sansa says, for Bran is thoughtful, but he’s still her little brother and she wouldn’t want anything to happen to him in his adventures.

“Mother wants to keep me in the nursery forever,” Bran glowered at her, as if she was the one who had forbidden him to climb, “I want to be a knight and go on adventures, not stay here all my life.”

“You won’t need too,” Robb is the heir to Winterfell and his heir would do well as a knight. Sansa has little fear for her brothers’ future. Rickon and Bran will be great knights of House Stark and Robb will take a wife and rule Winterfell. Perhaps Bran would be promoted to the Kingsguard one day, as he dreamed of. “When you’re a bit older, father is sure to find a good knight for you to squire for. Perhaps even the king himself.”

Bran smiles at that, and Sansa tucks the flower into her hair. Her brother takes the gesture of peace as it’s meant, and when their mother asks Sansa where the flower came from at breakfast, Sansa says that Bran plucked it from the gardens outside the keep that morning. They smile across the table at each other.

 _Be careful, Willem. Lord Tywin had two of the Kingsguard executed over her beating. It would_  
_be better for you to die fighting for her than for him to find out you stood aside, even for the king._  
_Remember Castamere? If King Joffrey is anything like his parents, the king will be angry at the_  
_slight dealt him._

It’s late night when Sansa feels a shift in her bed. She was dozing lightly, and so wakes up quickly. Rickon is there, looking all of his two years, a blanket wrapped in his fists and wide eyes. Sansa isn’t sure how he opened the door or why he’s out of bed, but she shuffles over and helps him climb into her bed.

“I dreamed,” Rickon said, as he stole the warm place her body had made in the furs and curled into a ball, “of cats as big as a horse. One killed an old, fat deer and another mauled a great grey wolf, but a wolf watched their cubs too.”

“It was only a dream...”

“There were bloody fish too, Sansa, with a whole pack of wolves, led by a crowned wolf. Another wolf had white rocks in it’s fur, and one of the wolves could fly.”

“It’s all right, Rickon,” Sansa murmured, curling deep in the furs as Rickon settled against her back. “It’s only a dream.”

“I dreamed of a green eyed wolf too, Sansa. It killed a unicorn.”

"Unicorns are all dead, Rickon."

 _I’m sorry, Sansa. I promised you’d be safe, and I left an unborn babe and my  
fool brother to protect __you. Forgive me._  

“He won’t make you go to Karhold, will he?”

“Maybe for a time. I think father wants to see if Lady Alys and I would be a good match, perhaps I’ll squire for Torrhen for a time while I’m there. I wouldn’t stay too long, I’m heir to Winterfell, after all,” Robb promised. “Perhaps father will bring you if you ask?”

“Mother says that father considered Eddard Karstark as my husband, but she argued for a southern match, as I wanted. I can’t give him a reason to ask for my hand. Mother’s been talking of Garland and Loras Tyrell; Robert, her sister’s son; a Riverlands lord; and perhaps even of Joffrey or Tommen Baratheon. Father was an old friend of the king, you know,” Robb smiled sadly at her.

“You beg me not to go to see Lady Alys for a few months, but you want to go to the Reach? I’ll miss you then, sister,” Robb embraced her tightly, and Sansa clung to him.

“Maybe the Riverlands lord, then,” Sansa answered, “or Robert Arryn. I’ll be closer then.”

“Closer still if you wed the Smalljon or Eddard Karstark, but I’ll always visit you, sister, even if you marry a Martell of Dorne.”

 _Send a letter? Saying what, that the king nearly killed their sister and did kill their  
grandson and _ _nephew? No, Joy, let Sansa tell them. Or Tyrion. Not me._

“Mother?” her throat ached, but she could feel someone fussing at the edges of her senses.

“Sansa!” Cool hands pressed against her head, and Jeyne’s touch was gentle as she fetched water for her. She would have sat up, but the movement sent pains through her back and her stomach. “Joy, fetch Lord Jaime and Maester Pycelle, she’s awake!”

“Jeyne? Where is mother? Where is Robb?”

“Your family is in Winterfell, my lady, and you are in King’s Landing, although Lord Jaime says that we’ll be leaving soon. Going to Casterly Rock with Lord Tyrion and the prince,” Sansa remembered slowly. Going south with father, Arya, Jory, and the wolves. Bran’s fall and Robb’s war. Ilyn Payne and Meryn Trant. King Joffrey’s distant cruelty and Ser Jaime’s kind hands, Lord Tyrion’s great honor and the Queen’s vicious words. “I’m sorry, Sansa. You lost the babe.”

Sansa felt nothing. She thought of Joffrey and of Cersei. How could she live with a child half as violent as the boy-king or half as rash as Cersei? The child would be a lion, not a wolf, and all Sansa knew of living with lions was their claws. She lifted a hand to her stomach, feeling bruises through the thin nightgown. The small bump that had formed was gone. Lord Tyrion was a Lannister too, she remembered, and he was clever and kind. He had been the only one to stand against Joffrey for her sake. Jaime was a Lannister as well, and he had treated her as a true lady, not a traitor’s daughter. They were among the few who had cared about her after her father had died.

Jaime had hoped the babe had his eyes and her hair, and the very though of his hand darting out to rest on her belly when she told him sent a painful shudder through Sansa. Her mother had been very clear that a woman’s worth was in the children she bore. If she could not give Jaime children, surely he’d have her set aside for someone who could. Tywin himself had been pleased at the news, promising her that a boy would be heir to Casterly Rock and a girl would be wed to the heir of a noble house of the Westerlands. Her children would have been far safer than she had been, for even the wolves in the North knew better than to threaten a lion’s cubs.

Joffrey had repeatedly threatened to have Jaime bring her to him, and it had been partially that fear that had her pleased when the babe began to grow. Tywin would not suffer the honor of his house questioned. The first sob wracked through her body, sending pain shooting through her lower torso, and Sansa began to cry in earnest, not entirely from the pain. Lannister or Stark, the babe had been hers too.

What would Robb think if she was sent home in disgrace? Perhaps Tywin would claim her mother as a bride for Jaime, she was not past her childbearing years. If Arya was found and she had bore no heirs, her sister could be dragged back into this nightmare. What good was a bride to seal a treaty if she could not bear sons? Jeyne rested one hand on her shoulder, stammering words that were no comfort, scared to touch her for Sansa’s sake and her own.

It was then that Jaime stormed into the room, clutching his sword in one hand and looking about wildly. Behind him, Tyrion waddled in, looking far more somber than his wild sibling. Sansa wiped her tears and struggled to compose herself, but on every exhale her wails became louder and Jeyne was beginning to freeze up. Jaime sheathed his sword and handed it to a bemused Tyrion before crossing the room to reach Sansa’s bedside. She hardly knew what she was doing when she curled a hand into his tunic and twisted her battered body into his, Jaime awkwardly wrapped an arm around her.

He was hesitant to touch her and whatever he was saying went unheard over her cries, but moments later, Joy was pressing a warm cup into her hand. Sansa had not trusted her for weeks, a benefit of her being a Lannister, but she was calmer than Jeyne and warmer than her many cousins, “you must calm down, Sansa, or you will bleed again. The maester is on his way and he will have something to dull the pain.”

“I’m sorry!” Sansa managed, looking into Jaime’s face. He floundered, but Tyrion simply handed the sword to Ser Daven and urged her to drink the warm milk.

“You’re sorry? Joffrey is the one who should be sorry. None of this is your fault,” Tyrion soothed, directing a sharp look at his brother, so blatant that Sansa could see it through her tears.

“I lost the babe.”

“Yes, you did. Our father is furious, but not with you. He’s blamed Joffrey, and so should you.”

“He had Meryn Trant and Boros Blunt beheaded in front of the entire court,” Jaime seconded his brother, “he’s quite worried about you.”

Sansa sobbed weakly. If Tywin Lannister was worried about her it was because he feared that she couldn’t produce a heir, not because she was hurt. They were kind to act otherwise, though. The maester arrived soon after, puffing from being rushed through the keep.

Later, Sansa wouldn’t remember much of what was done. She remembered the pain of the wounds on her back having the bandages removed, remembered the cold cream spread over her battered torso, and remembered cold hands on bruised flesh. She was drowsy from pain and dreamwine by the time Pycelle left. Jaime and Tyrion went with him, but Joy tucked her deeper into the blankets and saw to her comfort.

This time, Sansa did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's awake. I meant to do a little more with this chapter, but I decided another POV would be better served.


	9. Lady Stark II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Wedding is canceled.

12/14/300

It had been a fairly straightforward battle. 

At least, that is what the Blackfish had said, before grinning ruefully and adding _as well as a battle could be_. Edmure had seemed less confident, but their uncle was splattered in still-damp blood and hadn't yet found time to fetch his dagger from Lord Walder's throat. Edmure had been one of the few to take a wound, having been set upon by Black Walder and Lothar Frey at the start of the battle. Both were dead, one killed by Edmure himself, the other by Lord Norbert Vance. Edmure had assured Cat that it was the only upset to the battle before being carted off to a safer place, although before he left Brynden had been sure to mention that it was also the most dangerous thing that could have happened. 

He had not finished the thought, likely had not even realized, but Cat's mind did it for him. Had Bran and Rickon and Arya been alive, the situation would not have been so dire. Robb had no children yet, and Brynden was an old man, and unmarried. She had thought of her sons every day since she was parted from them, although now she prayed to the Stranger for two of them; she found herself seeking the Mother of late, on Robb's behalf. She had sought her mercy for Edmure too, sitting on her horse far from the Twins. Jeyne did not watch, and Catelyn did not know if she was afraid of seeing the battle, although they were too far from it, or if she wished to pray for Robb in peace, for she owed no loyalty to Edmure or Riverrun. The girl is now settled in one of the safer rooms, well guarded, and Cat does not know if she should be angry with the girl for causing this or angry because she is refusing to help. It does not matter. Catelyn is too tired to be angry.

Now Edmure was safe with her, a maester looking after his injury, and the Blackfish was leading the search of the castle. Catelyn had been left with the most important job: finding the male heir to the Twins. Little Walda was a girl of eight, she could neither act on her claim nor fight to reclaim the Twins, and so the Blackfish thought her important only in that she be kept under guard. So Cat stood in the main hall of the Twins, parchment in hand, surrounded by guards bearing Riverrun's sigil, watching what remained of House Frey be paraded before her. Even though she was the only woman in the room, dressed in long skirts and bearing no weapons, the Freys could not quite look her in the face. 

She had found Ryman and Edwyn and Petyr already, had added their bodies to that of Black Walder, and still searched. Most of those still alive were young boys and old men, and some cowards that had surrendered when they saw how the battle went. She had found Cleos Frey in the mess of men, his armor surprisingly clean, and had ordered him taken to the dungeons. If Tywin had traded for his brother, he would want him as well. She was brought Jared Frey and Arwood Frey and Whalen Frey, and too many Walders to count. Even Aegon Frey was dragged forward in his strange clothing, but Cat dismissed him too. A jester would not lead House Frey, not with so many uncles and cousins waiting in the wings.  

In the end, it was not she who found him, but the Blackfish. He sent all the men he found in the upper levels down to her, hands bound and under guard, and among the first of these Cat found Walton Frey. A man of three-and-twenty, with a bloody face and a scowl. He glared at the guards surrounding him, and when he was led to Cat he stared her in the face. 

"Your name?" She did not recognize at first, eyes flickering upward to see yet another Frey man, and then down to her list of the members of their house. Many were scratched out – more as the men brought bodies down from her uncle's patrols – and fewer were marked to be alive and found, but it was still too many. He gave no answer, as many of them had, and Cat looked to the girl beside her. 

She had been a maid in the Twins, and although Cat did not know what she had been promised, she had identified each Frey correctly so far. When Cat doubted her, a man from the Riverlands always stood to agree with her judgement. She looked at Cat now, not the man, as she pronounced, "that is who you are looking for, m'lady. That is Walton Frey." 

Cat looked at him properly now, the quill paused over the parchment, "so it is. Take him to a private room, and set guards. He is not to leave without permission from Lord Tully." And she went back to her marking. It took many hours, but by the time Edmure had been bandaged and allowed back into the castle, the last of the surviving Freys had been accounted for. By now the Blackfish had joined her, with a list of the women and children upstairs. Few were missing, only daughters and their children married outside of the House and the occasional younger member who squired outside of the Twins.  

"Did we find all of Perra Royce's children?" 

"Yes," Cat had already compared the lists, "we have them all here. I separated them from the rest of the Freys, hopefully it will keep them from plotting until we have decided what to do with them." 

"It's more likely that those in the dungeons will simply kill them once they've overrun us," the Blackfish grumbled, "but barring that, we have some time. Did you think about what I said, Edmure?" 

Edmure frowned, reaching one hand up to fuss at his bandages, "I have. Walda Frey _is_  heir to the Twins, but I don't know who I would marry her too." 

"Not that," Brynden waved him off, "about the men." 

"If I were in your place, I would have them beheaded for their betrayal of their leige lord," Catelyn felt little sympathy for the Freys after Lord Walder's demands, and even less after what Lord Tywin's last letter had implied. 

"I mean to have them take the Black," Edmure admitted, startled by Cat's words. 

"And what will you do with those that refuse to take the Black?" Cat retorted, "if you tell them that you will execute them if they do not – perhaps even if you do not – then those who intend to retake their lands will simply agree, then abandon their oaths on the road North." 

Her brother stared at her now, as if he saw her for the first time, "Cat, I cannot execute _every_  member of House Frey. Many are children, others wives and sons to other Houses. If I kill all their uncles and brothers, many will be displeased. I do not need more strife, after all this, and I am not Tywin Lannister. Isn't this Northern justice, Cat?" 

"Even in the best of times, the road to the Wall is hard," she warned, remembering the last traitor that had fled the Wall, and the cold road to Winterfell that awaited her. Her hands formed into fists in her skirts, remembering what awaited at Winterfell. The fabric was too soft, to thin, and she let go just as quickly. It was another reminder that she was not in Winterfell, not with her sons, "it would be easy to lose men on that trip." 

"How far could they make it? If the road is as hard as you say, they will die coming back." 

"There are many Frey men still alive. If you send them all  North, you will have to send them with guards. Those guards will need supplies. If they manage to overtake their captors, then they can simply take the supplies and return South." Cat's tone was more condescending than she had meant it to be, and Edmure began to bristle. 

"Will Robb take them?" The siblings' argument stuttered to a halt as their uncle spoke. He leaned back in his seat – Lord Walder's seat, in truth, as it was his solar just that morning – and stared past them both, deep in thought. 

"Robb still has to retake Winterfell. He cannot spare part of his army to watch prisoners while he fights." 

"He will need supplies to go North," Brynden asked mildly, "we will give him those supplies, and men to watch any prisoners during a battle. Those men can watch his camp and his wife as well, and he would have more men to retake his lands. All we would ask is that they travel with him to Winterfell, and be given supplies to return. You can do what you like with the Freys then, Cat. Keep them until the snows clear or send them North to the Wall before our men leave." 

"But not kill them," Edmure clarified quickly, "they'll say it was our idea." 

"We can do that," Cat agreed, "but any who refuse to take the Black must be executed. Why leave them in the dungeons to await rescue?" 

"It is settled, then. The Wall or the sword, except for the ones Tywin wants to trade for." 

"And any too dangerous to give to Tywin," Brynden agreed. "For the girls, it is my advice to marry them into Houses that are loyal to Riverrun. Houses that you might give the Twins too. For Edwyn's daughter, take her with us. She can serve your lady wife as a maid until your son is of age to marry." 

"I should marry him to a Frey?" For all Edmure's words of caution, he sounded appalled at the idea. "Make a Frey the Lady of Riverrun? Even if they were still a noble house..." 

"Perhaps your secondborn," Bryden agreed, after a moment's pause, "or you could marry the girl yourself, when she comes of age." 

"Perhaps my secondborn," Edmure echoed, "or I might marry her to a lord. The Twins is a strong castle, many lords would be glad to rule them." 

"That would do," the Blackfish rose from his seat, brushing one hand absent-mindedly over his blood-stained armor. "if that is settled, I will find a room. It's been long since we've had maids available, and I would like a bath." 

Cat followed him, placing the parchment in her hands on the desk as she rose. She had said nothing, but she had long wanted a bath as well, although it almost felt like betraying Robb to relax while he was still in the field. Her thoughts ventured further, before she could catch herself, and then it felt like betraying Bran and Rickon to clean the sweat and dirt from her skin when their heads were on pikes above Winterfell's walls, bloody and defiled. The feeling wormed it's way deeper. She had betrayed Bran already, by abandoning him to come South when he couldn't even walk. Ned had asked her to care for the North when he had a son of five-and-ten to leave behind. Instead, she had abandoned a child of eight to keep it. To be the _Stark in Winterfell_. 

A hand caught her shoulder, tugging gently, and Edmure was looking at her with sad eyes, "come, sweet sister," he took her arm to usher her toward the door, "I will have the maids draw you a bath too." 

She allowed herself to be led.  

Edmure took her to chambers that had belonged to a Frey lady that morning. She sat and watched the maid fill the bath numbly, until a soft knock came at the door. The woman who entered was familiar, vaguely, and she helped Cat with her clothes, guided her into the bath, scrubbed her skin clean, and offered a nightgown when Cat had had enough of the water. She sank into the bed – free of furs for once – gratefully, mummering a quiet, "thank you, Bess," as she drifted into sleep. At the edge of consciousness, she thought she heard a reply of, "of course, my lady," but she was already too sleep to process that, much less make a reply.  

Her awakening is not so gentle. 

"Cat! Cat, get up, quickly!" She sits bolt upright, lifting the blankets to cover her chest, clad only in a nightgown, before she even registers that it is her uncle there, shaking her harshly. She opens her mouth to say something, she doesn't know what, probably about impropriety, when the Blackfish deems her awake and finishes the thought. "We've found Arya! She's escaped the Lannisters, she's here!" 

All thoughts of propriety fly out the window. She throws the blankets back and leaps from the bed with an energy she had never thought to regain. _Mother be praised,_ her prayers had been answered. She darted for the door, barefoot still, and her uncle realized his mistake too late. "Cat, get dressed, quickly, I'll take you to them." 

She ignores him. There is only one place that Arya would have been brought, if not her rooms, and she rushes past the startled maids left in the Blackfish's wake. If she had been thinking, she would have been grateful that Edmure brought her to the rooms of a highborn Frey lady, near Lord Walder's own – perhaps they had belonged to Lady Frey herself, yesterday, although by rights those rooms should be Jeyne's – and so it is not far for her to go. She bursts into what was yesterday Lord Walder's solar, and stops dead. 

Edmure stands behind the desk, but she barely registers his presence. He says something, but she is too busy looking at the others in the room. Aside from three embarrassed guards, there is a a man and a boy. The man she knows by his scarred face, the Hound, the Lannisters called him, and she wonders if Arya truly  _escaped_  or if Tywin had sent her here for some plan, as she looks at the boy. His squire, she had assumed, although the boy is dirty and has ragged hair and a strange, small sword. Then the boy turns and she sees his face, sees the long face and grey eyes -  Ned's eyes, Ned's face – and that is not a boy. 

She rushes forward to meet her daughter – her wild daughter with a boy's hair and sword – half way across the room. She drops to her knees and Arya clings to her as she rarely did in Winterfell. She is sobbing, and Arya is talking, and Cat is not listening. She pulls back, framing her daughter's face with her hands and looking at her again, as if, in the moments that had passed, she had changed. Gone back to the squire she had thought she was. It is still Arya, still Ned's eyes looking back at her, and Cat crushes her to her again. 

Some time later, somewhere, she hears Edmure's voice as if through a wall, "he wants a reward, uncle, for bringing Arya back to us. Says he saved her from the Lannisters and worse and is owed payment." 

"Give it to him!" Cat pulls away from her daughter, not letting go of her, only drawing far enough back to look over her shoulder, to where the Blackfish stands in the door, looking at his bewildered nephew and crying niece. "Uncle, give him whatever he wants." 

At her pleading, Brynden looks at Arya, still crushed into her mother, and nods, "Arya's life is worth much, if what you say is true, but we cannot give anything to you yet. He will wait until Arya has told us what happened, and then we will reward him for any efforts." 

He directs the guards to see the man out of the room, and goes to Cat. Gently, he pries her off Arya and brings her to her feet. Arya herself has not quite let go, but he manages to shuffle them over to a chair, Cat's hands never leaving her daughter, and Arya nearly sitting in her mother's lap. He takes a seat himself, and looks to Arya, still a mess and clinging to her mother. Nevertheless, she meets his eyes. 

"Arya, are you injured? Would you rather have a bath and a meal before we talk?" 

"I'm fine," Cat is listening this time, and she nearly cries again at Arya's voice. Later, she will be ashamed, for she ran through the halls in a nightgown, her hair wild and her feet bare, but right now she cannot stop staring at her daughter. If she lets go, she fears Arya will vanish. How many times has she had dreamed of Rickon or Bran, only to wake up from them? How many times has she touched Ned in her dreams, but been robbed of him when she woke? Her hands tighten on Arya's shoulders. "The Hound brought me here, but my swordsmanship teacher died to help me escape the Red Keep and a man of the Night's Watch smuggled me out of King's Landing after I watched father die. He didn't _save me_  from anyone. He just wanted to be rewarded." 

The Blackfish stared at her. She was filthy and tired, but she was not afraid. Even after all she had been through she met his gaze and spoke honestly. He nodded slowly, considering. 

"Tell us everything." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone for so long...you probably thought this would never be updated again. I have a few chapters lined out though, worked on because this one gave me so much trouble the first time I tried to write it, almost a year ago. I'll try to update more regularly. 
> 
> We're due a King's Landing chapter, but I have another Dany chapter mostly written (my original notes say this was supposed to be a battle scene), so we'll see where it goes.


	10. The Old Lion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey's a cruel and foolish boy, and Tywin knows he raised Cersei better than this.

4/24/300

The first time Tywin had proposed that Robert Baratheon marry his daughter, the Baratheon Lord looked as if he might spit at his feet. Eddard Stark had already fled the throne room, and Robert was not yet a king; only the Lord Baratheon, seated on the Targaryen throne, with the Mad King's crown on his head and the last of the royal dragons at his feet. Jon Arryn had said something about promises and alliances, and Robert had turned to him with a sneer.  

 _"Lyanna will be my queen, or I will not be king."_  

Tywin had said nothing, but he doubted that Rhaegar had left the woman alive. Still, if Robert refused the position, perhaps Stannis would be raised as king. He was not the man Cersei had wanted to marry, but he would need gold and heirs, and so Tywin retreated gracefully back to his army to wait and watch. After Stark lifted the siege of Storm's End, Stannis agreed to marry a Florent of the Reach, in an attempt to mend the wounds the war had caused, but that did not matter. Robert had already been coronated.  

While Stark took his sister back to the Northern crypts, Tywin had been summoned by the new king. Robert sat at the end of the table and drank while Tywin negotiated the terms of the betrothal with Arryn, and when they had at last agreed he signed the pact without looking at it. Then he had pointed one finger at Tywin and told him that he was to leave King's Landing after the wedding, before sulking out, wineskin in hand. Arryn had apologized as well as he could while looking at him with eyes that agreed with Stark's assessment of _murderer_. He only had more sense about him than that fool of the Northerner. If he had not, Tywin suspected Robert would have been dead much sooner.

No, Robert had never been much of a negotiator. None of the Baratheons were, if Stannis and Renly's clash over the throne was considered. Tywin had hoped that Joffrey would take after the Lannisters in this, but he was as much of a fool as were his father and uncles. The boy took only his looks from Cersei. His daughter had been missing during this morning's court, and while Tywin had not intended to sit through the entire morning, he had little choice once he saw Cersei was gone. The entire time he had been forced to amend the king's rulings, curbing the boy's worse impulses.  

He had intended to spend the evening teaching the boy the things that his parents neglected too, starting with insuring he knew the houses of the Crownlands and perhaps arranging for one of the Kingsguard to teach him how to use a sword. He never made it that far, for by the time he left Joffrey's court he needed some time away from the boy king, least he throttle him. At least the Tyrells would not need to be told that killing two lords for a minor land dispute wouldn't endear them to the people. Perhaps Cersei should be less worried about the Tyrells and more worried that the smallfolk would revolt because her son was a fool.

Instead, Tywin sent the Kingsguard and a pair of Lannisters knights off to guard Joffrey - guard Joffrey from the people, or guard the people from Joffrey Tywin wasn't sure - and sent several of his men to fetch his children to his solar. They arrived soon thereafter, Jaime taking the seat nearest to his father's desk, while Tyrion and Cersei exchanged barbed pleasantries over the wine decanter. Tywin set his quill aside once they had settled, and fixed Cersei with a flat stare. 

She reacted sooner than Tyrion would have, "father, I presume you called us to discuss Tommen's journey to Casterly Rock." 

"There is nothing to discuss. Jaime is taking Tyrion and a thousand men to escort Tommen and Lady Sansa to the Rock, Ser Patrek will accompany them as Tommen's Kingsguard. Was there something that was unclear to you?" 

"I had thought we were undecided which Kingsguard would go with him." 

"Patrek is of Lannisport. He knows the Westerlands well and will be best able to keep Tommen safe," Tywin opened one of the drawers on his desk to produce one of the letters that had arrived by raven this morning. "I called you here because we have word from Lady Catelyn," and a dozen other things, but this must be addressed soon. 

"She replied quickly," Cersei took another drink of wine, looking bored now that the conversation wasn't to be about Tommen. Tywin was tempted to send her from the room, but he was speaking to Jaime, in truth, not to her, and she would be needed later. 

"Her daughter lost her grandson, who would have inherited the Westerlands," Tyrion scoffed, "did you expect her to ignore that?" 

"She is quite angry because we didn't keep our word that her daughter would not be harmed," Tywin continued, as if they hadn't spoken. If he addressed their every aside they would be here until dawn, "she demands compensation in the form of gold to substitute the broken promise. She also makes clear that, since Sansa was pregnant once, if she fails to bear a heir it is because of this injury, and the Starks will not be providing another wife." 

"How could they provide another wife? The younger girl is still missing, is she not? And if Sansa cannot have a son, what good is she?"  

"She _did_ have a son, Cersei," Jaime snapped, more harshly than Tywin had heard him speak to his sister in many years, "Pycelle said the babe was in good health three days before Joffrey murdered him." Tywin didn't need the reminder.

"Joffrey didn't-" 

"Joffrey did." Tywin spoke with a finality that caused Cersei to bite back her response. "I have decided to send the gold they request to Riverrun, so Lady Catelyn can take it North with her." 

"I find it surprising that we sent her word of her daughter's near death and she sends back a demand for gold," Tyrion mused, "I had expected more concern from her. She did kidnap me because she thought I tried to murder her son." 

"She asks that Lady Sansa be allowed to write," Jaime was already nodding. Tywin would have to remind him to read the letters before allowing them to be sent, "it is lucky she received the news before leaving Riverrun, else the Crown would have to provide the resources to get the gold to the North." 

"Why are we giving her Joffrey's gold?" Cersei had busied herself topping off her wine glass so she wouldn't need to look Tywin in the face. "You keep saying that Sansa is a Lannister, send them Lannister gold." 

"She is a Lannister," Tyrion agreed, "but Joffrey is a Baratheon, and thus must send his own gold." 

"Indeed. Jaime, how is your wife? Pycelle assures me she will still be ready to leave on schedule, but is insistant that she must be able to walk before she can leave," he had also repeated his request to put off the journey for another moon, but even Sansa herself had rejected that idea. 

"She's been trying to stand every morning," guilt flickered across Jaime's face, but he continued, "I've been trying to be with her when she does so I can see her progress. I think it hurts more than she lets on, but Pycelle thinks she's going too fast. He's worried she will hurt herself." 

"She managed to take a few steps this morning," Tyrion reported, "she has taken up her sewing again as well, she manages to stay awake longer every day." 

Tywin decided not to ask why Tyrion knew what Sansa had been doing this morning, it was not as if the beautiful Sansa Stark would be infatuated with a dwarf, "good. I will instruct Pycelle to insure she doesn't cause more damage by moving too fast. We can put off the journey a day or two if necessary." 

Cersei was apparently attempting to drink enough to give herself an excuse to leave, and Tyrion was forced to reclaim the decanter of wine so he would still have some. Before another argument could break out, or Cersei could voice her dissent to Jaime leaving yet again, Tywin changed the subject. 

"A raven also arrived from the Eyrie, giving news that Lady Regent Arryn is expecting a babe," Tywin had meant to go on, but this time it was Tyrion who interrupted him.

"Lady Regent Arryn? You mean Lysa Tully? Petyr Baelish is having a child?"

"He needed someone to inherit Harrenhal," Tywin agreed, "and his new wife is not out of her child bearing years."

"She was married to Jon Arryn for one-and-ten years before she gave him a son," Cersei seemed as surprised as her brother, looking to Jaime in bemusement.

"He had two wives before her, and they had no children," Jaime reasoned, "it seems the fault was not with Lady Lysa."

"How very strange," Cersei agreed, but Tywin had not meant to spark a discussion on Jon Arryn. He continued bruskly.

"Joffrey was also given word of Lord Tully's marriage this morning, the messenger reported that the new Lady Tully was very beautiful, and Joffrey suggested she be brought to court," Tywin did not have time to argue with Cersei over every foolish thing the boy had said this morning, "When you told me that Robert was ignoring the boy's education, it was my understanding that you had overseen it instead." 

"Joffrey is only a boy, only jesting. What does it matter if he likes his court filled with lovely women?" 

"It matters because we do not need the Baratheon version of the Blackfyre rebellion. He was not jesting; if I had not been there to otherwise advise him, the command would have been carried out. We need Lord Tully rebuilding the Riverlands, not following his wife about King's Landing." 

"Perhaps this is why Targaryens took multiple wives," Tyrion had seen Margaery's bruises, although the young queen had made great efforts to cover them, "so that they had one to distract them while the other was protected." 

"Margaery does not need to be protected from Joffrey! If anything, he needs to be protected from her. If that babe in her belly is a son, they will have no more use of us or Joffrey. They must be watched." 

"I have already told you that this mistrust of the Tyrells cannot continue," Tywin cut off whatever Tyrion might have said, "Margaery has done nothing to Joffrey, there were no bruises on him, and of all the Tyrells only she, Ser Loras, and her handmaidens remain in King's Landing. Unless you think Joffrey needs protection from his pregnant wife or her ladies?" 

"Ser Loras is a skilled knight and carries a sword around the keep," she was starting to remind him of a bitter child. 

Ser Loras is a member of the Kingsguard, it is his sword duty to protect the king." 

"It was Jaime's-" 

"Enough!" Tywin rarely raised his voice, but he had been insulted enough for one day. It mattered little that the entirety of Westeros called his heir 'Kingslayer,' but he would not have his daughter saying it  "I brought you here to inform you about messages brought to court this morning, since you were absent. I do not have time to listen to your paranoia about the Queen. I have arranged for Joffrey to be given swordsmanship lessons tomorrow by one of the Lannister knights. It will do him well-" 

"He could be hurt!" 

"He is the king. The next time a rebellion rises up he will likely be old enough to put it down himself, he can't be coddled as if he is a child forever," Cersei was simmering, but neither Tyrion or Jaime had moved since Tywin had snapped at her. Tyrion hadn't even drank. That was an improvement, at least, "Tyrion, since you are going to Casterly Rock, I saw no reason to bring Myrielle here. Instead, you will meet her at Casterly Rock." 

"Lovely. No grand King's Landing wedding, then?" 

"If she thinks you a suitable husband, you will be wed at Casterly Rock. The Westerlands were forced to miss Jaime's wedding, it will do them well to have a celebration," Tyrion had no answer to that, for once. It took him a moment to form any reply. 

"I'm not sure what you expect of me, father. I am no handsome knight to sweet the girl off her feet," Tywin did not need to be told that. Not when his son was sitting directly in front of him, not even had he been half the world away. One does not easily forget that they have fathered a dwarf, and the ugly scar across Tyrion's face did not make him more handsome. 

"She does not need to fall in love with you," Tywin doubted it was possible, but it would not help the match to say that, "she only needs to think you a decent husband. The Lannisters need more sons, and if you provide them I may give you your own lands." 

"My own lands." Tyrion sounded as he if didn't believe him, and Tywin's gaze darkened. He had no reason to lie to Tyrion, if he wanted him to marry Myrielle he would, and if he made the girl refuse him a far worse wife could be found. In truth, he was rather insulted at the implication. 

"Yes, your own lands. Castamere comes to mind," now all three of his children were staring at him as if he had suggested they crown Stannis king, "when the Reynes held the castle their mines produced much gold. If I granted you Castamere I would expect you to reopen those mines."  

The mines would need to be drained and excavated, and while Tywin had an idea of how to do it he did not have the time. If given the proper motivation, Tyrion could be clever, and it was not as if the dwarf would be carrying away the stone himself. If he failed in this, there was always Kevan, although he was loathe to send his brother away to mine rocks. He gave Tyrion a pointed look, "but there is no point in discussing that until you have met Myrielle." 

For once, Tyrion shut his mouth, thinking anew about the match he had been presented, most likely, and Tywin was free to continue, "Cersei, you will be holding court tomorrow, in Joffrey's place." 

"While Joffrey plays swords with his knights." 

"While I discover how well you raised him," Tywin did not have the time for this, and after dealing with her son most of the day he didn't have the desire to find it, "after his lesson, he will join me in attempting to rebuild the burnt lands around King's Landing. Perhaps if he can do that, I will let him decide how much gold the Riverlands deserves in their rebuilding efforts." 

They needed grain before winter came, and while the Tyrells sent much food, they could not be relied on forever. While he doubted that the Queen would have the bravery or intelligence needed to murder the king, there was always the chance that she might not produce a proper heir or die trying. The sooner they managed to rebuild the farmlands the better for all of them. 

Tywin had never wished to lose a war, but at least if he had lost he would not need to fund the winter supplies of half the kingdom. Granted, it would still be Casterly Rock funding it if he had lost, as the rest of the Seven Kingdoms never seemed to be able to find their own gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Tywin, if somewhat brief. I plan to have one more chapter before they leave King's Landing. I might be bribed into posting it tonight instead of tomorrow if those who comment will leave comments on both...
> 
> So, who's POV do you want to see more while they're traveling (for five months, mind you) to Casterly Rock? Jaime or Sansa?
> 
> Also, do you guys want polls when I ask questions like this? Because it would be really easy just to link a poll. I like hearing from my readers and I understand that not all of you want to type up a comment (although I love it when you do).


	11. Mother of Dragons II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Princess and the Queen?

3/21/300

It was not as if Daenerys could not claim royal blood. Both of her parents had been of royal blood, prince and princess before they were king and queen, as their parents had been before them. She could trace her line back to Aegon the Conqueror, the first king of Westeros. He had burned Harren the Black in his stone walls, destroyed the Lannister and Gardener armies in the Field of Fire, and taken the Vale and the North without so much as raising a sword. Like him, she was a dragon. No one would argue that, not with Drogon curled around her throne, not when his wings cast shadows over Meereen. 

But Dany had not been raised among the noble houses of Westeros. She had grown up in Braavos, in Ser Willem Darry's house with a red door. She had been cast into the streets of the Free Cities, living frightened and abused. When she was three-and-ten, and it had not escaped her notice that there was only interest in her after she flowered, she and Viserys had been taken in by Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos. It was better than living on the street, but it was not Westeros. Viserys had told her how they would retake the Iron Throne with his help, but Dany had been little more than a slave, and had been sold to Khal Drogo in turn. 

Arianne, however, had never needed to rely on the favor of others. She was the daughter of the Prince of Dorne, and the Martells still remembered when there had been no king above their princes. While Dany had fought her way up in the world, ruling by her wits, Arianne had been trained by her father to take his place in Sunspear. Although Dany did not admit it to Arianne, the Dornish princess was far better at politics than she had ever been. 

Once she had been assured that Quentyn would not die and seen her brother's wounds herself, Arianne had sat with Dany's council meeting to learn what was happening in Meereen. Then she had written letters, not only to her father in Dorne, but also to those who had been masters in Meereen. Dany doubted that letters would do anything for them, but she took them and had them sent where Arianne requested nonetheless. It would be difficult to make the situation worse. 

In response to those messages, the Green Grace had come, and she and Arianne had spoken for a long while, feasting in Dany's council room with white Viserion dozing on the balcony. Perhaps it was that Arianne's mother was of the Free Cities, or that she was simply more clever than Dany's advisors, but when the Galazza Galare left the Great Pyramid, Arianne sent word to Dany that she must come to see their negotiations. 

So she had left her throne room late, wishing she could remove her tokar and dress in the riding pants favored by the Dothraki, but only clutched the Ghiscari garb tighter. By the time she arrived, her advisers were already arguing. Arianne was seated in the center of the table, a dark green tokar wrapped around her and a large amethyst at her throat. She looked more Ghiscari than many of the former masters that Dany had seen in the city. They quieted at her arrival, and Arianne lifted her chin and began to explain, the others bristling behind her. 

"I have come to a first agreement with the Green Grace, although we expect you'll want to make some changes," Arianne sat back in her chair, "she thinks you should marry, take a king among the nobles to aid with ruling the city." 

Dany had not expected that. Arianne had come to Meereen offering a marriage to her brother, and now she wanted her to marry one of the Meereenese? "Aid with ruling the city? _Can this king puff his cheeks up and blow Xaro's galleys back to_ _Qarth_ _? Can he clap his hands and break the siege of Astapor? Can he put food in the bellies of my children and bring peace back to my streets?_ " 

"Can you?" Dany was speechless for a moment, at the Dornish girl's audacity, but Arianne was not finished. She reached for the wine before her, her fingers and arm gleaming with jewelry and shining metal, "you say you want to sit the Iron Throne. You have accepted my father's offer of ships, but you say you wish to bring peace to Meereen first. You cannot rule Meereen from across the Narrow Sea, and so you must install someone here to obey your orders." 

"They have murdered my warriors and tormented the freedmen of the city. How can I trust them?" 

"You have dragons," Arianne gave Viserion a pointed look over the edge of her glass,"if you take the Iron Throne and find they have not obeyed your commands, you can come back and burn them. That threat will keep them obedient, if you can first make peace. Tell me, what do you know of Robert Baratheon?" 

"The usurper?" The question was unexpected. Arianne had not so much as paused in asking it, as if it followed, but what did the Baratheons have to do with Meereen? "He raised a rebellion against my family, murdered my father and brother, and my brother's wife and children, and if Viserys and I had not fled he would have killed us as well. He is a traitor, and he is dead." 

"Do you know what Westeros thinks of him?" 

"I know the smallfolk of Westeros await my return. I imagine that means they do not approve of his betrayal." 

Arianne studied her face, "who told you this?" 

"My brother, Viserys. Why does it matter?"  

"It matters. What did Ser Barristan tell you of your family?" The knight had gone quiet when Dany entered the room, but now he grew pale, and Dany's confusion was overridden by suspicion. First Jorah, now Ser Barristan? Although, now that she looked to Jorah, she saw that he too refused to meet her eyes. 

"That he knew Rhaegar, and had fought beside him. That he was a brave and noble man." 

"Nothing of your father?" 

"What is this?" Dany demanded, "what should he have told me. Ser Barristan, what is she talking about?" 

"Tell her," Arianne looked at Ser Barristan now, and they stared at each other. "Tell her of the Starks, or I will." 

Ser Barristan looked to her slowly, "I know of the Starks," Dany snapped. 

"Of Lyanna Stark?" 

"Of- of Eddard Stark." 

"Tell her what happened at Harrenhal. Of what Rhaegar did." 

"Prince Rhaegar won the Tourney at Harrenhal, my Queen," Ser Barristan would not quite look her in the face.  

"You were there," Arianne pressed. 

"Yes, I was one of the men he defeated in the joust." 

"And after Rhaegar won, what happened?" Arianne sounded accusing, and as annoyed as Dany felt, "with my aunt there, watching as her husband won the tourney, what did he do?" 

"He crowned Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty," The room had gone quiet. The Meereenese in the room were confused, but they were not stupid. Dany's surprise and Arianne's anger kept them silent, looking between the Westerosi warily. 

"Are you certain Elia was there?" 

"My Uncle Oberyn was as well," Arianne replied flatly, "I am sure. Tell her who Lyanna Stark was, Ser Barristan." 

"You might tell her, and make this quicker," he replied, and Dany had never heard him sound so defiant. 

"Lyanna Stark was the daughter of Lord Stark," Jorah interjected, "a sister to Brandon and Eddard Stark, and betrothed to Robert Baratheon." Now Dany understood, but the pettiness of Arianne's point did not help the Baratheon cause. 

"So Baratheon started a war and overthrew his king because his betrothed was named the queen of love and beauty? Shouldn't he have been pleased?" 

"Perhaps he was," Arianne shrugged, "I cannot say. Elia was not, nor was Oberyn. And he certainly was not when Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna Stark." 

Her brother had been a brave and just man. She looked at Ser Barristan, "Is this true?" She wished her voice was not so quiet. 

"Yes." 

"Brandon Stark, her eldest brother, rode to King's Landing and demanded Rhaegar explain himself-" 

"He told Rhaegar to 'come out and die,'" Ser Barristan interjected, "I was there." 

"You were there," Dany cut in, "so tell me." 

"The king had them sent to the dungeons, and sent for their fathers. Lord Rickard Stark came to fetch his son, and the king- he declared them guilty of treason and conspiring to murder Rhaegar. He ordered them executed. Lord Stark- Lord Stark demanded trial by combat." Ser Barristan was staring at some point behind her.  

"He lost?" 

"In a way." Arianne did not finish the thought, and it took the knight a moment to go on. Dany was suddenly cold. A trial by combat was a just way to determine guilt in Westeros, she knew this well. What had happened that was so terrible that Ser Barristan could not tell her? 

"Lord Stark dressed in full armor and came with his shield and sword to the promised combat. He was bound and hung over flames before the throne. The king had declared fire the champion of House Targaryen," now that he had begun Ser Barristan seemed to be unable to stop. He continued talking, the words rushing together. "He brought in Brandon Stark as well, tied a cord around his neck and place his sword just out of reach. He said that if he could take his sword and cut down his father, he would let both of them go. While his father screamed, Brandon Stark strangled himself trying to reach it." 

"Aerys demanded the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon," Arianne continued. She was unconcerned with the story, and Dany realized that she knew this well. Perhaps all of Westeros did, but no one had ever told her. _Mad Aerys_ they called him. Viserys had called it lies. Viserys had also said he loved her and sold her like a slave. 

"Why?" 

"I do not know. My father thinks it was because he feared they would start a war over Lyanna. My uncle thinks it was because he was still angry that they dared to demand Lyanna back. Rhaegar was the crown prince, after all, whatever the Targaryens wanted, they took, in Aerys' mind. What I do know, is that both boys were wards of Jon Arryn of the Vale, and that Arryn would not give them up. He called his banners and closed the Vale. 

"Brandon Stark had been engaged to Lord Tully's daughter, and Eddard married her instead to gain the Riverlands. The North, Vale, Stormlands, and Riverlands rebelled to save Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon," Arianne paused, frowning, "the Lannisters hid under Casterly Rock and the Reach sent men to aid the Targaryens. Dorne did too, for they had Elia. Aerys sent Rhaella and Viserys to Dragonstone to protect them, but Elia he kept in the Red Keep." 

"Robert Baratheon murdered them." 

"Tywin Lannister murdered them," Arianne corrected firmly, "after he convinced Aerys that he was going to help defend the city. Amory Lorch dragged Rhaenys from under her father's bed and stabbed her over and over. Gregor Clegane dashed Aegon's dead against the wall and raped Elia while she was covered in her son's blood. Then he crushed her head. That is how they returned the bodies to Dorne." 

"Robert Baratheon betrayed my family." 

Arianne stood, stepping around the table and taking Dany's hands in her own. Dany registered that she was sitting on the floor, one of her bloodriders standing protectively over her, Arianne kneeling in front of her. Her hands were cold and her head was spinning. On the balcony, Drogon had landed, forcing Viserion to flee her larger brother. He had stuck his head inside the room, sending many of her advisers scurrying into the hall, and now looked at her with his fire-colored eyes. 

"If Lyanna had been Rhaego, would you have let her be kidnapped because the man who took her would be king?" Dany did not answer her. She would rain fire and blood down on anyone who tried to take her daughter from her. She would have released her dragons from under the pyramid and burned the city before allowing her to come to harm. She would burn them all, slaves and masters alike. "If you were Robert Baratheon, would you have died willingly?" 

 _I am the blood of the dragon._ A dragon knew no better, but a man did. She thought of the slave children she had replaced with Great Masters on the road. Of the women she had taken from Drogo's riders. _Breaker of Chains_ they called her, for she had freed the slaves. What was Lyanna Stark, but a stolen slave? What was she to do? Allow the man who wanted her dead to keep his throne? Yet isn't that the choice Robert Baratheon had as well? She looked up at Arianne. 

"Why do you tell me this?" 

"Many reasons. Because you deserve to know what the rest of Westeros does. Because you must know the mistakes made in the past to make the world better. And because if Rhaegar had asked for Lyanna Stark's hand instead of stealing her, perhaps he would now sit on the Iron Throne. You cannot win Meereen through fire and blood, your Grace; not if you want those you freed to remain alive. You must use diplomacy if you want peace." 

Dany was still. Drogon's breathing was all there was to hear, loud in the small room. She wanted to go back to her rooms and take Rhaego from where she slept, to hold her babe and try to understand. Was it just to take the Iron Throne for herself? What if her father's madness was hidden within her? She could not hide, not now. _I am the blood of the dragon_. Her people needed peace, and she was their queen. Dany gripped Arianne's hands tight, and pushed herself to her feet.  

 _"There is nothing to fear,"_ she pressed her hand to Drogon's scales, hugging his muzzle to her chest and looked into his eyes. _"Be calm."_  

He snorted and turned away, his tail hanging over the balcony railing as he made himself comfortable, watching her still. She took a seat at the table, near Arianne, because she did not yet trust her legs. Her head hurt, and still spun from Arianne's revelation. She pushed it from her mind and turned to Arianne as her advisers came back into the room, "what is it you think must be done?" 

"The Green Grace suggestion that you marry a Ghiscari noble, Hizdahr zo Loraq. We spoke of this, and she says that he can bring peace to the city." 

The Shavepate began to grumble, "she would say anything to get close to the Queen." 

"Do you take me for a fool?" The Shavepate was head and shoulders taller than Arianne when she was standing, and she was sitting down the table from where he stood. Had they exchanged places, they would be the same height. The Dornishwoman's gaze did not falter, "My mother was born in the Free Cities, and I was trained to be the Princess of Dorne. I know of the noble houses of Meereen, and I would not have heard the Green Grace's words if she did not speak the truth." 

"What if I marry him and he cannot bring peace?" 

"If he can stop the attacks, then he is the cause of them," Airanne ignored Skahaz this time, turning back to Dany. 

"We have agreed that there must be three moons of peace before you would marry." 

"I do not understand. You came here to ask me to return to Westeros with you, but now you want me to marry a Ghiscari? Westeros will not accept him as their king. Is he to ride one of my dragons?" 

"Targaryens are known to take multiple consorts. Aegon the Conqueror himself did it. You have two dragons beside Drogon, and have said you will marry their riders. What is one more husband for the Dragon Queen? Rhaego is already your heir, you do not need another for the Iron Throne. 

"This is what I propose: appoint Hizdahr the Prince of Meereen, and have him rule in your name, following your commands. In Westeros, you will have many noble lords who rule over parts of your kingdom, what is one more?" 

"He would not be a lord, he would be my husband. I intend to go to Westeros, who will rule after him?" 

"Your child." Dany stared at her. Few knew that she could not bear another babe, and she was not certain she wanted Arianne to be among them. She was a valuable ally and rode one of her children, but Dany had known her less than a moon. 

"No. I will go to Westeros to sit the Iron Throne, if the babe goes with me he will know nothing of Meereen and he cannot stay here without me. I would not leave my child with a man I know nothing of." 

"Then he can take another wife, and their children can rule after him," Arianne frowned, "The marriage is to calm the nobles, not to provide children." 

"Am I to marry a man from every city I conquer?" 

"I have spoken to the Green Grace about this man, and sought the advice of others as well. If you wish to conqueror more cities, give Hizdahr charge of them as well. He is said to be a clever man of noble birth, if he cannot rule your cities, then cast him away and take a husband who can." 

"You wish me to change husbands as I change clothes?" 

"In Westeros, if a woman does not give her husband sons, he can set her aside and take a different wife. If a lord cannot control their holdings, their leige lord can give them to another. You expected to have two husbands, now you only have one dragon who can take a rider, and thus will have one husband. What is another?" 

"I must think on this." 

"I told the Green Grace as much. When you have decided, we shall send for Hizdahr zo Loraq and give him your answer. If you say yes, he promises to stop the killings that very day. If you say no, there will be no change." 

"Can we not make him stop the killings?" 

"It is not he who commands them," the Shavepate began to interject, but Arianne spoke over him, "why do you need a Westerosi husband?" 

"Because Westeros will not accept a Ghiscari king." 

"Then why should Meereen accept a Westerosi queen? You do not understand the Meereenese people, my Queen," Dany had a protest on her lips, butcagain Arianne continued, "You do not like it, would not wear it if you did not think it would help, but they do. They do not like your Dothraki garb, you do not like their tokar. A compromise can be reached." 

"Have you ever tried to ride a dragon in a tokar?" 

"That is not the point. You see it differently from how they see it. While some call you the Breaker of Chains, others _see a conqueror from across the seas, come to murder them and make slaves of their children_ ," Dany bristled, but Arianne did not falter, " _a king will change that. A highborn king of pure Ghiscari blood will_ _reconcile_ _the city to your rule_. 

"You asked me to bring peace to the city. This is the best solution I can find." 

Dany said nothing. _She thought of Stalwart Shield, of Missandei's brother, of the woman_ _Rylona_ _Rhee, who had played the harp so beautifully. No marriage would ever bring them back to life, but if a husband could help end the slaughter, then she owed it to her dead to marry._  

"I must think on this." Men would die in the streets tonight. "Send word to Hizdahr zo Loraq. I will give him my answer in the morning." 

"As you say, my queen." 

Daenerys stood, then, her head still spinning. She did not feel confident on her feet, but she forced her legs to work. She had meant to fly Drogon after the meeting, but instead she turned toward her rooms, Rakharo following close behind. The pyramid was the safest place in the city, but at the door stood a dozen Unsullied, men hand-picked by Grey Worm. They said nothing as she hurried past them. Inside the room, Jhogo sat on a bench, cleaning his weapons, and he started as she shoved the door open. Beside Rhaego's bed, in the most comfortable chair Dany could find within the city, sat Rhaego's wet-nurse, Layaffi, with her babe in her arms.  

Dany calmed her voice, "please, leave me alone with Rhaego." 

Her bloodriders withdrew to wait outside the door. Layaffi took her daughter and went to her adjoining rooms, closing the door behind her. Once they had left, Dany picked up her daughter, cuddling the babe to her chest. Rhaego's copper skin was dark against hers, and when Dany smoothed back the shock of silver hair, she stirred, looking up at her mother with violet eyes.  

Dany had promised to sit her on the Iron Throne. 

 _Would Hizdahr zo Loraq help see her there?_ She had never before had such doubts, but now they filled her until the rest of the world dimmed. _Does Mad Aerys' granddaughter deserve to sit on the throne?_  

She had promised to keep her freedmen safe, but they were dying. 

 _Would my father have fought for his people?_ She could not give Meereen a babe to keep the peace. _Can Hizdahr?_  

Collecting the soft blankets that Rhaego was wrapped in, Dany retreated into her own quarters. Dawn would come far too soon, and she wanted to be alone. Her own rooms were brighter than her daughter's, and her handmaidens were in the room already. Irri was readying a bath, the tub and oils laid out already, " _I am sorry, Khaleesi, I did not expect you s_ _o soon._ " 

The Dothraki was warm against her ears, and suddenly Dany missed Drogo more than she had since coming to Meereen. There would be no argument, no diplomacy, if Khal Drogo was here. Meereen would do as he commanded, or he would put them to the sword. She thought of the women she had saved from his riders, remembered Irri and Jhiqui had been taken as slaves from conquered Khalasars. 

 _"Do not worry. I do not want a bath tonight, but I will take one in the morning,"_ Irri nodded obediently, _"go and find the khalasar, Irri. I need nothing else tonight."_  

 _"Thank you, Khaleesi."_   

The bed was covered in fine blankets, was so soft that Dany sank when she lay on it, but she only pulled one of the blankets off and dragged it across the floor. While she had fetched Rhaego, Drogon had made himself comfortable on her terrace. She draped the blanket over his leg, spread it over the floor, and sat Rhaego on it. Then she stripped off her tokar and threw it aside, grateful it came off easier than it had gone on, before collecting her babe and curling against the blanket. 

Drogon was black scales and fire, but Dany had long ago lost any fear of him harming Rhaego. Were it not for him, her daughter would be dead long ago. Indeed, he nuzzled near her, careful not to huff his hot breath over Rhaego, but peering curiously down at her all the same. The Harpy himself would not dare attack her now. The babe reached out an arm for the dragon, but Dany caught it, worried she would scratch herself. She placed her hand gently on the smooth scales instead, and the dragon was so close to Dany's head that she was staring into his eyes.  

 _I am the blood of the dragon._ She was a Targaryen that had never known Westeros. If the meeting today had been anything to go by, she knew far too little of it to rule. Dany felt small. She was the _Queen of Meereen,_ by right of conquest, but she knew far too little of _how_ to rule. Arianne had pried information from the city that seemed closed to Dany, had found a path to peace within weeks of arrival. How many lives might have been saved if she had been here when Dany first arrived? All of her titles were a lie. She was _The_ _Unburnt_ _,_ with shorter hair than Viserys' maiden sister. The _Breaker of Chains,_ while most of Slaver's Bay had resumed their slave trade. A _Mhysa_ ready to abandon her children for a throne. A Khaleesi who's Khal was dead, who's khalasar had faded, who had been sold as a slave and made a queen. _Mother of Dragons_. Drogon was still watching her, Rhaego bubbling laughter in her arms. 

She sank back into the blanket, relishing in the heat of Drogon's scales. 

Dawn came too soon. Dany woke, lying against Drogon's blanketed leg, half-curled around Rhaego. Jhiqui was singing softly in Dothraki in the side room, and she stood slowly. Irri had filled the bath as she had asked, and Dany gave Rhaego to Layaffi and sank into it. The water was steaming still, and she was grateful for it's warmth lapping at her skin. Irri scrubbed her skin, rubbing her with sweet oils and helping her from her bath. As she braided Dany's hair, Jhiqui brought out a beautiful, dark blue tokar. 

Dany took a long look at the shapeless garment. It was beautiful, with the silver fringes and soft pattern. It would please Hizdahr zo Loraq to look upon. It was something Arianne would wear to the court, smiling, violence hidden behind sweet words. Something a Ghiscari noblewoman would wear. But she was not Ghiscari. She was not a Dothraki either, though, and she was no Westerosi Queen.  

She should wear the tokar. 

 _"Bring me my riding pants,"_ she said. After she donned them, Irri helped her with the tokar. It took two tries to wrap it correctly, and once it was on she took Rakharo's dagger and cut a line up the skirt of the garment until she could walk properly. Then she opened the sleeve to free her arm, and had Irri fix the fine silver belt she had been gifted in Qarth about her waist. Jhiqui brought her hard, pretty slippers instead of her riding boots and Irri set her dragon necklace about her neck and her heavy crown upon her head. 

She felt more like a queen now than she had in days past, and she went to break her fast with Hizdahr zo Loraq. Arianne had nor joined her, and so she dismissed all guards but her Unsullied, and then only kept two. By the time all had been arranged, Hizdahr had arrived, and she admitted him to her presence. 

He was dressed simply, and although his eyes flickered almost curiously to the cut in her tokar, he said nothing of it. _As he entered, he bowed low, his face solemn._

 _"Have you no smile for m_ _e?"_ _Dany_ _asked him._ She had sent Drogon away too, aware that the threat of dragonfire might threaten this talk. _"Am I as fearful as all that?"_  

 _"I always grow solemn in the presence of such beaut_ _y."_ _It was a good start._ She did not consider this because she felt great passion for him, but because he was said to be a diplomat, while she was not. Dany motioned him to sit, and took some of the fruit for herself.  

 _"The Green Grace seems to feel that if I take you for my husband, all my woes will vanish."_  

 _"I would never make so bold a claim. Men are born to_ _strif_ _e_ _and suffer. Our woes only vanish when we die. I can be of help to you, however. I have gold and friends and influence, and the blood of Old Ghis flows in my veins."_ Dany remembered her own claim to dragonblood, and wondered if this meant as much to him as that did to her. " _Though I have never wed, I have two natural children, a boy and a girl, so I can give you heirs. I can reconcile the city to your rule and put an end to this nightly slaughter in the streets."_  

"Arianne, the rider of my white dragon, tells me such. She says that if we can find peace, you will rule the cities I conquer I claim the Iron Throne."  

"I admit, I did not expect that. She did not seem to impressed when I met her." 

Dany had not expected that either. "You met her?" 

"She came to my pyramid to speak to me. She had a great many guards, but was kind enough. I know she spoke to others as well, before she summoned the Green Grace here." 

Dany had given Arianne leave to do whatever she needed to to bring peace. Who could she trust, after all, if not those her children chose? _"Why would you want to help me? For the crown?"_  

 _“A crown would suit me well, I will not deny that. It is more than that, however. Is it so strange that I would want to protect my own people, as you protect your freedmen? Meereen cannot endure another_ _war, Your Radiance.”_  

 _That was a good answer, and an honest one. “I have never wanted war. I defeated the Yunkai’i once and spared their city when I might have sacked it. I refused to join King Cleon when he marched against them. Even now, with Astapor besieged, I stay my hand. And_ _Qarth_ _… I have never done the Qartheen any harm …”_  

 _“Not by intent, no, but Qarth is a city of merchants, and they love the clink of silver coins, the gleam of yellow gold. When you smashed the slave trade, the blow was felt from Westeros to Asshai. Qarth depends upon its slaves. So too Tolos, New Ghis, Lys, Tyrosh, Volantis … the list is long, my queen.”_  

 _“Let them come. In me they shall find a sterner foe than Cleon. I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage.”_  

 _“There may be another choice. The Yunkai’i can be persuaded to allow all your freedmen to remain free, I believe, if Your Worship will agree that the Yellow City may trade and train slaves unmolested from this day forth. No more blood need flow.”_  

She looked at him, and felt for Drogon. He was high above the city now, and although he was the largest of her children he was still small compared to those ridden by Aegon the Conqueror. He would not be small forever. "If the Yunkai'i continue to trade and train slaves, much blood will flow, and not only theirs. My children are small now, but one day they will have wings to blot out the sun. Then the slave trade will stop, or there will be no more men for slaves." 

Hizdahr said nothing, and Dany focused back on him, letting her awareness of Drogon fade,  _“You have not said you love me.”_  

 _“I will, if it would please Your Radiance.”_  

 _“That is not the answer of a man in love.”_  

 _“What is love? Desire? No man with all his parts could ever look on you and not desire you, Daenerys. That is not why I would marry you, however. Before you came Meereen was dying. Our rulers were old men with withered cocks and crones whose puckered cunts were dry as dust. They sat atop their pyramids_ _sipping_ _apricot wine and talking of the glories of the Old Empire whilst the centuries slipped by and the very bricks of the city crumbled all around them. Custom and caution had an iron grip upon us till you awakened us with fire and blood. A new time has come, and new things are possible. Marry me.”_  

 _He is not hard to look at,_ _Dany_ _told herself, and he has a king’s tongue. “Kiss me,” she commanded._  

 _He took her hand again, and kissed her fingers. “Not that way. Kiss me as if I were your wife.”_  

 _Hizdahr took her by the shoulders as tenderly as if she were a baby bird. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers. His kiss was light and dry and quick. Dany felt no stirrings_ **,** but she did not want to marry him because she loved him. She remembered Doreah, and when his kiss was over, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him like she had kissed her. 

There had been many pleasure houses in Meereen, but Hizdahr's breath was quicker when she released him. _I do not love you_. She thought.  _“One day I will want to return to Westeros, to claim the Seven Kingdoms that were my father’s,"_  she said. 

 _“One day all men must die, but it serves no good to dwell on death. I prefer to take each day as it comes.”_  

 _Dany_ _folded her hands together. “Words are wind, even words like love and peace. I put more trust in deeds. In my Seven Kingdoms, knights go on quests to prove themselves worthy of the maiden that they love. They seek for magic swords, for chests of gold, for crowns stolen from a dragon’s hoard.”_  

 _Hizdahr arched an eyebrow. “The only dragons that I know are yours, and magic swords are even scarcer. I will gladly bring you rings and crowns and chests of gold if that is your desire.”_  

 _“Peace is my desire. You say that you can help me end the nightly slaughter in my streets. I say do it. Put an end to this shadow war, my lord. That is your quest. Give me ninety days and ninety nights without a murder, and I will know that you are worthy of a throne. Can you do that?”_  

 _Hizdahr looked thoughtful. “Ninety days and ninety nights without a corpse, and on the ninety-first we wed?”_  

 _“Perhaps,” said_ _Dany_ _, with a coy look. “Though young girls have been known to be fickle. I may still want a magic sword.”_  

 _Hizdahr laughed. “Then you shall have that too, Radiance. Your wish is my command. Best tell your seneschal to begin making preparations for our wedding.”_  

 _“Nothing would please the noble_ _Reznak_ _more.” If_ _Meereen_ _knew that a wedding was in the offering, that alone might buy her a few nights’ respite, even if Hizdahr’s efforts came to naught. The Shavepate will not be happy with me, but Reznak mo Reznak will dance for joy._ _Dany_ _did not know which of those concerned her more. She needed Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts, and she had come to mistrust all of Reznak’s counsel. Beware the perfumed seneschal. Has Reznak made common cause with Hizdahr and the Green Grace and set some trap to snare me?_  

She thought of Drogon. No, she did not need the Brazen Beasts, but they were useful nonetheless. If Hizdahr would bring her peace, then she needed him. She looked up at him, "I will not kill you." 

"That is good." Dany laughed at that. 

"Not today, and not if you fail in this peace. I give you my word." 

"My Queen?" A shadow had fallen over the terrace, and Hizdahr stiffened as Drogon landed. He was still not big enough to have to half-drape himself over this one, and Dany strode toward him even as the wing from his wings sent her hair flying back. As she came close, he stretched out his neck, growling low like a cat's purr. She wrapped her arm around his muzzle and pulled it to her chest. 

"He will not harm you," she promised, "not so long as I am here. Come to me." 

She was almost surprised when Hizdahr moved forward, one step at first, and then he was bolder, stepping so she was between he and Drogon's teeth. He took the hand she had stretched out to him and she folded his hand in her own and pressed it to Drogon's muzzle as she had done with Rhaego's hand last night. He was standing almost directly behind her, his clothes brushing hers, but Dany was unafraid. He if harmed her now, he would die of dragonfire and her guards would help her. 

Drogon regarded him warily. _"It's all right."_   

The dragon's gaze shifted to her, and Hizdahr gasped out a word, "Rytsas." 

Dany laughed again, gently pulling Hizdahr's hand back, _"go back to your siblings,_ _"_  she bid him, and Drogon huffed sharply, annoyed that they were not flying. He turned and simply dropped off the pyramid, soaring upward a moment later, black winds dark against the dawn. Hizdahr had not yet let go of her hand. 

"I am sorry if I frightened you," his eyes never left the dragon.  

"No man has touched a dragon in a hundred years, Your Grace. It is worth a bit of fright." 

"If you bring me peace, I will take you flying if you desire it," Dany answered, and although he paled his eyes gleamed slightly. "You said before that you would bring me anything I desired?" 

He recovered quickly, it seemed, "yes, Your Radiance, anything you ask." 

"One of my maids died before I came to Meereen. I know Arianne has taken several Meereenese women as her handmaidens, I wish you to find me one," she considered him, "a trustworthy one." 

"I shall do as you ask," he agreed. When her eyes lingered a moment too long on his face, he laughed, "if you do not believe me, ask your dragon." 

"The fright may kill her." 

"It did not kill me." 

Dany smiled at that, the freed skirt of her tokar shifted in the same wind that held up Drogon's wings, "if you are to be my king, you cannot be afraid of my dragons." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I add dates to this? Because the chapters are NOT in chronological order. I'll probably piece the plots back together at some point, but if anyone wants, I can add dates easily.
> 
> I feel like this is too long, but has too little detail too. Thoughts?
> 
> Also, if it's italicized and you recognize it, it belongs to GRRM. If you don'r recognize it, it's thoughts.


	12. Queen Regent II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between Tywin's persuasion and persistence, Cersei has agreed to allow Tommen to leave King's Landing. Her son must be safe, but Casterly Rock has survived this long without Jaime.

4/24/300

She has no intention of spending years alone in King's Landing. The city was a cesspit, and she knew well how exhausting it was to be in it without Jaime. If she could not convince her own lover to return to her, then she might as well give up all hope and agree to wed the Highgarden heir. Even dour Stannis and Robert's honorable Ned Stark had noticed her beauty, which had only grown as she aged, and she knows Jaime has noticed. Even those who had never met her knew that Cersei Lannister was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. 

 _Save for Lyanna Stark._ That thought had lingered in her head for sixteen years. In truth, she was not sure why she was so angry. It was not as though she had married Robert because of her undying love for him. She had married him because he was the king, and she would be his queen, anything past that was only a bonus. Rhaegar was dead and his Dornish wife with him, and the kingdom needed a strong ruler; something Robert Baratheon was not. It certainly wasn't because she thought the savage, horse-faced Lyanna Stark was more beautiful than she. Granted, she had met the girl only once, and briefly at that. She had the dark eyes and hair of a peasant girl, the only beauty about her that of any young maiden, while Cersei was a daughter of the Rock, her hair spun gold and eyes like emeralds. She did not care what Robert thought. Or what Rhaegar thought. 

She wasn't sure why that hurt more, that the dragon prince had run away with the Northern girl. It was not Rhaegar that rejected her, but Aerys himself, when he brought Elia Martell to court and married her to his son. Rhaegar himself agreed with Cersei's assessment of Elia, it seemed, for he abandoned her and their two children to make off with the Stark girl. When she was younger, she had wondered what Rhaegar would have done if he had won at the Trident; had come home to a living wife and mistress. She would not have run off with the prince even if he asked her too, and if he had come to steal her he would have never have overtaken the walls of the Rock. Cersei was not a fool, would not be a second wife with claimless children. If she could not give them the Rock, she would at least make them lords. Damn Stannis and Renly and their war, if it had not been for them, her son would have inherited the Westerlands and Jaime would not be married to Lyanna's niece.

Those fools had started a war over a slip of a girl who could not even survive the birth of her first babe. Rhaegar was as much of a fool as his father. A marriage to Cersei would have assured them the support of her father during the Rebellion, and she never would have let her children die. Her father had many friends at court, and one way or another, they would have been taken out of the keep. Elia Martell had watched her babe die, but Cersei would have taken up a sword herself before allowing such a thing. If she had married Rhaegar, there would have been no war. Elia Martell was dust and ash compared to her beauty. Rhaegar would not have left her to chase after Lyanna Stark.

It was not as though Cersei had many complaints about how that had gone. Robert and Rhaegar and their Lyanna were dead, and she was alive. Some part of her will never forgive Jaime for giving Robert the throne, for stepping aside when it was his sword through Mad Aerys' back. He had told her of all that had occurred, much, much later, when they lay together in her room when she was Robert Baratheon's bride-to-be and he her guard. She had said nothing then, the shock echoing through her body. Jaime had been crying, and she did not have words to express the bile that rose in her throat.

He let the crown fall through his grasp, and she could forgive that – Jaime had never _wanted_  to be their father's heir or a king, or anything other than a knight – but she cannot forgive that he turned her down as well. Had he taken the throne, he could have had her as his wife and queen, together as they were meant to be, filling all the places the other lacked, making the other whole. _All kings have done it,_  they could have said, for all the kings had been Targaryens, and Targaryens had often married brother to sister. It was the first time she is truly disappointed with him, not just the childish anger of days gone by; as if they were not one soul in two bodies, but different and distinct people.  

Instead the responsibility of putting a Lannister on the throne falls to her, a daughter of Casterly Rock given as a jewel to the Baratheon king's crown. She had told him so, once, with fresh bruises marring her skin – _I thought Elia was alive,_ he had shouted in return – and they had not spoken for a week. If she had been Jaime, had just killed the king, she would have taken the throne. Tywin had never spoken of it to her, and many days she wish she could tell him the truth. That while Jaime had cringed from his duty to their house, she had put his blood on the throne, as it should be. Jaime might never be king, but his son would. 

It would never be enough for him, though. No, while Jaime had become a Kingsguard, she had been the dutiful daughter. She had married the man he told her to marry, produced Lannister sons to inherit the throne, and killed to keep their family safe. In return, he tried to marry her to Willas Tyrell. Cersei was the Queen, and with Robert gone she should rule Westeros. She had appointed Tywin as Hand, and instead of being grateful he tried to sell her off. The unfairness of it set her on edge. If she had been a man like Jaime - even a man like Tyrion - she would be hailed as king. Even Tywin wouldn't have dared try to control her. 

She had once thought it had been enough for him. Joffrey for the throne and Tommen for the Rock, but now _he needed a heir_ because Tommen would inherit the Stormlands after Stannis had rebelled. Tywin had scoffed when Cersei pointed out that he already had a heir, all he had to do was summon Myrcella from Dorne. Because Myrcella didn't have a cock between her legs, she was not suitable to inherit the Rock. Cersei had wanted to scream. What if she only gave Willas Tyrell girls? Who would have inherited then?  

Perhaps she dwelled too much on this. Cersei took a long pull from her wine and sighed, looking over the rim of the glass to the door. She wore a fine crimson gown trimmed with gold, the neck curling wide, accented with a golden necklace. She had curled her hair in long braids over her shoulders, painted her lips dark, and settling her heavy skirts over her cushion while she waited.  

It did not take too long, although longer than she thought, for a knock to sound on the door, and she admitted Jaime into the room. He looked less tired than the last time she had seen him, his clothes set to rights, his sword carefully buckled into place, and his golden hand shining in the light. He held that hand closer to his side, but Cersei would have traded places with him even if it had meant she lost both hands. She was the Queen of Westeros, and he only a knight, but Cersei remembered days spent riding his horse and holding his sword as a girl. She loved Jaime, but he was not particularly clever. She would have made a better knight, a better heir, than he. 

"Come, Jaime, sit with me," she invites, and he smiles ruefully as he comes to the little table with the spread of food. She told the maids exactly what to bring, and she knows what he enjoys. He sinks into the seat opposite hers heavily, and she sips at her wine again, reaching out to pour Jaime a glass as well. He is more interested in the food, but she takes the chance to top up her own. "I'm told your wolf is able to stand now." 

"Father considered having us depart earlier, but Pycelle is worried that she might never be able to have children if she's put in a rocking wheelhouse too early," Jaime ate a grape, and poured himself water to match her wine. "Did you call me here to talk about Sansa?" 

"I only want to know when my _beloved brother_  is departing. Tyrion said you might be leaving earlier," he had been drunk, but was more likely to know than she was. Their father knew she hated Jaime leaving.  

"I'm almost surprised you aren't happy to see us go, you rid yourself of Tyrion and Sansa as well." 

Cersei scowled at him, "I'm still not sure why _you_  can't stay. We still haven't found Stannis' body or his daughter, they could still intend to attack by sea." 

"According to father, they fled to Essos." 

"According to father, Stannis is dead," Cersei took a slice of fruit from his plate, earning herself an amused glare, "but I still haven't seen a body." 

"It's hard to find one man after you've killed over half his army in the same place, Cersei," Jaime shrugged, "and by all accounts his daughter is only a child." 

"Everyone was once a child, Jaime. I do not fear that the girl will take up a sword and march into the Keep, but any man who marries her might raise what remains of her father's army. The Stormlands are not Casterly Rock, but they still had gold enough to hire sellswords," she reached up to feel the gold necklace against her neck, watching Jaime's eyes follow her fingers, "You don't find it odd that we can find neither Stannis nor his daughter?" 

"Not really. If he thought he might die, it makes sense that he would send his only child to safety," Jaime mused, "but yes, I must go. Father is insistent." 

"I am aware of that," she was the Queen and still her father commanded her, "but I fail to see _why_." 

"First, because Tommen is Joffrey's heir and the future Lord Baratheon. Having the heir of Westeros as a hostage would prove useful, but if Stannis is alive, then he would have good reason to want the boy who took his seat as well," Jaime's grin had faded, and his voice grew tight. "There is also the matter of Casterly Rock's heir." 

"Not that again," Tywin had snarled that half-a-dozen times, and not all at Cersei. Tyrion wasn't so eager to trade his position in King's Landing for that of the younger brother of Casterly Rock. She suspected the ungrateful little monster also had no interest in Myrielle. For Cersei's part, she had sympathy only for the girl; why their father wanted Tyrion married at all baffled her. 

Jaime's gaze darkened, "Cersei, my son is dead." 

"Your son sits on the throne," she retorted, careful to keep her voice steady, "instead of having another heir, why not just give the Rock to the one you have?" 

"Tommen cannot rule the Stormlands and the Westerlands." 

Cersei stared at him, wondering if he had forgotten so quickly or if he was as dismissive of her as their father, "you have three children." 

"Myrcella is promised to Trystane Martell. Father would never allow a Martell to rule the Rock, and to break the betrothal would be a great insult to Prince Doran. You know that." 

"It isn't as if the Martells could hate us more," she reminded him, but that only deepened his frown. This was not how she wanted this morning to go, and so she took a deep drink from her wine before sitting it aside. Collecting her skirts, she stood, Jaime's eyes following her as she stepped around the side of the table, letting the fabric of her skirts catch on the edge. "Jaime?" 

His hands lunged out, grabbing her hips, and pulling her forward. She falls forward, down, lifts her knee to balance on the edge of his chair to prevent herself from falling. His hands would have kept her from the floor, she knows, but she does not need to rely on his strength. He kisses her, hands searching for purchase in her delicate hairstyle, while Cersei grips the back of his chair and shifts her knee higher, from the chair to his leg. He knows her as well as he knows himself, and he draws one hand to his chest, stutters, and replaces the golden hand on her back to keep her in place. The other is not so graceful as it fumbles under her skirts, but Cersei focuses on his mouth, pressing those thoughts away 

Something on the table falls, and Cersei stiffens, eyes darting to the door, "the guards have heard things fall before," Jaime soothes against the skin of her neck. 

"We must be careful, for Joffrey's sake," she answered, quieter than he.  

Jaime scoffed,"I would fuck you in the throne room, in front of the whole court." 

She hisses down at him, thinks _you had your_ _chance_ , nips sharply at his ear, "and kill our children." 

Cersei shifted back, only slightly, and Jaime shut his mouth and pulled her back. He brushed her hair off her shoulders, kissed her softly, and brings what had been his sword hand down to pull her knee further over, to coax her into straddling his lap. She needs no encouragement, and his hands find her hips, her skirts thrown out behind her, her head thrown back and his teeth gentle at her neck. 

"You are my only love," he swears as they move, their soul reunited once again. Cersei thinks of the throne room, of a crown on Jaime's head and she at his side, and of their father bending the knee before them. She cannot forget that, cannot _run away and marry him_  because he did this to them, and now he must walk the path he placed her on. 

"And you are mine," the lie is sweet on her lips. He is quiet because she bid him to be so, but she has Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen. Her precious children, and each of them carry a part of her heart with them, little shards that broke away when she held their babes in her arms. She is not wholly Jaime's. Perhaps this is her revenge, although it is a shallow one. He denied them the throne, did not love her enough to accept power, turned away a life together, and so she must give pieces of herself away. Robert took one too, when he whispered the wolf-whore's name in her ear. 

His breath catches, and Cersei stops thinking. Her soul is Jaime's as well, and they will share the bits that remain as they always have. She lets him pull her head down to kiss him, and crush the noises in their throats. She cannot hate him for it, although she has tried. 

When they are finished she sits in his lap, catching her breath, and he draws her close to rest his head on her shoulder. He holds her like he will never see her again, and in only a few days he will leave for Casterly Rock. She is older and it is _hers_  and she cannot go with him; the pain knots in her chest and she says, "do you like fucking me better than the little wolf?" 

Jaime stiffens underneath her, muscles suddenly tight,"Cersei, _you_ are the one who asked me to marry her. I gave up my position as Kingsguard and took her as a wife _for you_." 

 _It was fair._  And jealousy claws at her. She married once, and gave the Rock heirs at the cost of bruises and shame. _If you had taken the throne the Stormlands would not now need a heir._ They would still have Robert and Stannis and Renly, and however many trueborn children Robert's wife could stand, but she does not want to think of them now. She kisses him instead, an apology that would never pass her lips, but he is her and he understands.  

"You will come back to me?" Jaime's kiss is chaste, gentle on her lips, and he lifts his hands to frame her face. "After Tommen is safe and you've a babe on the way?" 

"I will," his eyes mirror hers, they are breathing in the same air, her hair tangled and flowing over her head and his until she cannot tell where hers ends and his begins. "I love you."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments last chapter!
> 
> I just wanted to clarify, while I am focusing this on the Lannisters, we're going to have chapters all over the Seven Kingdoms and with Dany. The chapters not focused around the Lannisters are going to have larger time skips, while Lannister (KL/CR) chapters will be more frequent and closer chronologically.
> 
> So, if you have a plot you're dying to see, let me know and I might move up the chapter. I have the Northern and Vale plots lined out, and am working on the Riverlands. Meereen's chapters are going to feature the Martells. Once I finish untangling the KL/CR plots (my notes are a mess) we'll get a lot more of those.
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the people who commented on the first chapter saying that it wasn't Jaime/Cersei enough for them.


	13. The Imp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that could drive away the thought of whether Tywin had promised Castamere to him or to Stafford was wine.

4/27/300

The knocking was persistent. 

It sounded like a hammer in his head, made no better by the amount of wine he had drunk last night. His father thought him a drunkard, but if the great Tywin had known that his lovely daughter was trying to convince her brother to remain in King's Landing by fucking him he might have joined him. There was also the matter of Sansa, and while Tyrion could not find it in him to blame is brother for choosing the woman he loved over the one he had been forced to marry, his callousness still over rode Jaime's proclaimed care for her. But Tyrion could not honestly say that was what occupied his thoughts.  

No, that was Castamere. 

Jaime had been a Kingsguard and their vows were for life; by law, Casterly Rock belonged to Tyrion. That their father had intended to give it to first Tommen and then Cersei's son by Willas Tyrell infuriated him. There was a fair amount of wine and smashed glass against the side of his room right now to prove that. Tyrion would be the first to admit that he had gotten a bit too drunk last night, and the pounding in his head agreed with him. Or was that the pounding at the door? He wasn't sure anymore. 

He fumbled around for a pillow, clasped it over his ears as best he could, and barked, "what!" in the general direction of the noise. He regretted it instantly, groaning as his headache grew. It did stop the outside noise, though, and that was an improvement. He had known that Jaime only agreed to leave the Kingsguard because Cersei had wanted it, and as much as he hated their father for it he was failing to be angry at Jaime for wanting to be away from the king. Particularly this king, although if the stories he had heard were true, from Robert and Aerys and any other king as well. 

"Lady Lannister has had another nightmare. She requested her husband or Ser Daven sit with her, but neither can be found," the voice is as soft as the knocking was loud, and it takes Tyrion a moment to understand the words. He slowly lifts the pillow, even the soft light filtering through the door making it worse, and finds himself looking at Joy. He means to send her away, opens his mouth to do so, but she is looking at him with Uncle Gerion's eyes and he can't find the words.  

If he drinks more, he'll be blacking out soon, so he clamps the pillow back down and waves toward the room in general, "bring me water." He does not want to do anything that could bring him into contact with Ser Daven or with Jaime at the moment, but Sansa asks for very little. It is not her fault that her sworn sword has the night off or that her husband is busy fucking another woman. 

She does, and after he has drank more than he should and managed to not vomit it back up, he tries standing. Joy is lighting a candle so she can close the door, and Tyrion waves her away. "Go back to Lady Sansa," he instructs, more gently than he feels, "I'll be along in a moment." 

She obeys, and Tyrion decides that – bastard or no – he will insist she be married to a kind lord. Not one such as Joffrey or one like Emmon. He takes longer than he should to pull himself together, but he manages it eventually. By the time he makes it to Sansa's room his headache has receeded a bit, and he looks far more presentable. One of the knights at the door knocks, and the door is opened instantly. Joy peers out at him, then steps aside to allow him in. 

"You should not open the door until you ask who it is," he chides her, but she gives him a look that reminds him of his lord father. 

"If there had been a problem, we would have heard the guards fighting and I would have barred the door," the bar is as big as she is and nearly as heavy, but he does not doubt her word. Sansa's Northern girl is nowhere to be seen, but Joy has brought a tray of food and watered-down wine to the table by Sansa's bed. The lady herself pales when she sees him, but manages to smile as well. 

"Lord Tyrion, I am sorry to bother you," he seats himself in the chair that should be Jaime's and offers her one of the wine glasses, wondering if she should have something stronger for her pain instead of catering to him. He searches for something to say aside from the platitudes that he is already speaking, and his eyes fall on the books on the far side of the bed. 

"I see you found the Westerlands' history interesting, Lady Sansa," she is wearing a nightgown that looks too heavy for the heat of King's Landing, clutching the blankets to her chest, a flush touching her face, but she smiles truly at that. 

"My brother Robb married Lady Jeyne Westerling of the Crag, I thought I should know something about my good-sister," she stares at him like a startled rabbit, as if she has admitted something she should not, "a- and I must know about my husband's lands if I am to run the castle." 

Jeyne Westerling is barely worthy of having Sansa refer to her as 'lady.' The girl is only just nobleborn, and neither Tywin or Tyrion himself would have considered her for so much as Sansa's handmaiden. Tyrion has only heard of her in passing, after she married Robb Stark, and for such a woman to be called ' _Queen in the North,'_  even for a short time... he did not like to think of it, but what his father had done to Tysha would have been nothing in comparison.  

Even as it was, with his father having no interest whatsoever in protecting Stark, he was not likely to stand aside and let one of his bannermen's daughters wed a traitor to the Crown. Had he not known that whatever Tywin had planned would hurt Sansa, it would have been interesting to watch, "does Jaime dislike it when you talk about your family?" 

"No, my lord-" 

"Tyrion." 

"No, Tyrion, he seems to enjoy hearing about them. A few days ago I told him about my sister's love of riding, and he told me that the Queen had enjoyed it in her youth as well," Sansa picked up one of the books, allowing her fingers to play with the cover, "but the queen herself and the king dislike it." 

"Ignore Cersei," Jaime fell back into her bed too easily, but at some point he had made her stop calling Sansa a 'wolf-bitch.' Small improvements were better than none, "the rest of us do." 

Sansa had no answer to that, just stared at him. She opened her mouth and instantly closed it, whatever words she had formed rejected before they could pass her tongue, and Tyrion decided that it would be more merciful to continue speaking, "there is no need to fear her anymore. Our father has made very clear that anyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way will be removed from their position," and, very possibly, their head would be removed from their body, but Sansa does not need more reason to worry. 

"But Queen Cersei is the Queen Regent. She rules the Seven Kingdoms in King Joffrey's name." 

Tyrion repressed the urge to laugh. It would not make Sansa feel better about herself, and, in the North, that would likely have been true, "our father rules the Seven Kingdoms. I'm not entirely convinced that he needs Joffrey to do so, either. If Cersei does not do as she's told he's promised to ship her off to Highgarden and have her marry a Tyrell." 

"Would the Tyrells allow that?" Tywin wouldn't care if they allowed it or not, but he is not Robert and not Cersei – and if Sansa is as stupid as Joffrey he's the king himself – so he explains. 

"Since Margaery became pregnant, they have more hold at court. All that is in their way are father and Cersei. If they can remove one of them, they would," and Willas Tyrell would have beautiful blonde children to inherit the Reach, which wouldn't be a negative either. It would be easier to keep Jaime out of Highgarden, and Cersei would have to have children. 

"Oh. I didn't realize..." She doesn't complete the sentence, and Tyrion doesn't know if she meant that she didn't realize that Tywin outranked Cersei, or that the Tyrells played the game as well. Perhaps both, "they tried to marry me to Willas Tyrell, once. I thought they were being kind." 

If they had, and her brother had died, they would have a claim on both the Reach and the North, perhaps even the Riverlands, had Edmure Tully stayed caught up with Robb Stark. There is little he can say that would not make her feel worse, and so seeks to change the subject. He could tell her about her mother's letter, or her aunt's pregnancy, but both of those might make her feel worse, so instead he says, "you'll need to start composing a letter soon, if you mean to send it before we leave. I'm afraid you're mother's reply will have to wait until we reach Casterly Rock." 

"Letter?" 

"Yes, your mother has requested you write to her," had Jaime not visited her yesterday? Her eyes have brightened, and she smiles again. 

"Thank you for telling me, Lord Tyrion. I have much I wish to tell her," her smile falters, "and I must apologize to Arya." 

"When I was a boy, Jaime and I did many cruel things to each other. We often forgot to apologize, but we always forgave each other," Cersei had done many cruel things too, and never apologized, but Tyrion had never forgiven her much of them, and that was not the point, "if your sister is anything like us, she has much to apologize for and nothing to be forgiven as well." 

"I was mad at her," Sansa admits, and Tyrion is suddenly stuck by the hilarity of trading tales with his brother's wife in the hours before the sun could rise. Yet he has nothing else to do, having already been released from his position on the Small Council, and while it should be Jaime here, he would not trade positions with his brother now for Casterly Rock itself, "before father... I thought she was being foolish, and I never had the chance to tell her I was sorry for all the things I said to her. Much less getting father killed." 

Tyrion has thrown wine glasses before, but never dropped them. Perhaps when he was too drunk to remember, but that hardly counts. As Joy scurries to mop up the mess, he leans toward Sansa, speaking more harshly than he intends, "you did not kill your father."  Tears are forming at the corners of Sansa's eyes, and Tyrion does not dare look to Joy for help, he does not want to see the accusation in his uncle's eyes. He is too drunk and it is too early, and damn Jaime for not being here, but he grasps her hands tightly and tames his voice. "Why would you think that?" 

"The day father was captured, he wanted Arya and I on a ship to Winterfell. I didn't want to go, I thought I loved Joffrey, I thought we were going to marry and have babes, I thought the Queen cared for me!" Tyrion doesn't know what the girl's family taught her, but clearly it was not how to play politics. Why would her father allow her to marry Joffrey if she had no idea how to survive in King's Landing? Cersei might complain that Tywin had married her off like livestock, but she had been far from helpless, "I should have known! She almost had Lady killed, Joffrey lied about what he and Arya fought over, he wanted me to lie too! If I had told father- if he knew the truth about why Joffrey and Arya fought, he wouldn't have brought us here and he wouldn't be dead!" 

"Sansa, you are not responsible for your father's death because you were too scared to tell him why your sister was arguing with a boy." 

"They weren't arguing! He called-he called her- and he tried to run her through with his sword!" She was hanging off the bed now, and Tyrion was forced to climb onto it to sit next to her least she fall off. She clung to him, and he patted her back awkwardly and tried to remember how Jaime had comforted Cersei when he was a boy and she was weeping.  

"Joffrey tried to kill your sister?" 

"Yes, and I was too in love with him to tell father," he pushes at her shoulders, and her grip doesn't loosen, but her head turns. Joy has fetched a handkerchief and pressed it into his hands. When he presents it to Sansa, she pulls it into the cavity between her chest and his. 

"And that was foolish. But that does not mean you killed your father. Joffrey killed your father," some part of him wants to pin this on Cersei, but all she did was fail to stop it. It was Joffrey who gave the order, "not you." 

"But I told her!" 

"Told her what?" Tyrion couldn't find a connection between telling Cersei that her son tried to kill Arya Stark and Eddard Stark's death. Tywin called it an execution, but it was closer to murder, in truth. Tyrion could not say that he himself would not have done it, but not then and for the reasons Joffrey had. 

"Father was going to send Arya and I back to Winterfell, he wanted us to board the ship the morning he was captured, but I didn't want to leave," Sansa was still sobbing, but the rush of words was clear, "I- I don't know. I wanted to say goodbye to Joffrey and I wanted the queen to not make me leave. Instead she had Jeyne and I locked in a room. Then she took Jeyne from me..." 

Sansa's voice was quiet now, "if I had gotten on that ship, they wouldn't have been able to kill him because Robb still had Lord Jaime." 

If the Stark girls had been missing, Cersei _would_  have stopped Joffrey from killing their father. For all her faults, she would not have let Jaime die for her son's stupid plans. And if she had not, father might just have abandoned the city to Stannis. It was not hard to see that he was furious that Joffrey knew nothing about being a king.  

Sansa is bruised and crying beside him, and he cannot just tell her that she is right. He pulled her chin up to make her look him in the face, "no one is responsible for killing Eddard Stark but Joffrey. He swore to allow your father to take the Black, and instead he killed him. That is not your fault." 

She makes no reply, but she dries her eyes and drinks the milk of the poppy that Joy has brought her. They sit in silence, Tyrion resolving to write to Genna before they reach the Rock and Sansa trying to calm herself. He lets her cling to his tunic until she has composed herself, and sits up. She hisses in pain when she tries to arrange herself on the pillows again, but between himself and Joy, they manage to find her a comfortable position. 

"Sansa, listen to me," if her parents could not tell her the truth, better she hear it from him than from Cersei, "you are not responsible for what Joffrey did. Joffrey is. You are not responsible for your father being captured or for yourself being captured. It is not your duty to protect yourself, it was your father's duty and now it is Jaime's. You did not understand what was happening, and that is not your fault either. No one is expected to know how to convince or read others upon birth, it is a skill that must be taught. If you like, I can find you a teacher. My Aunt Genna comes to mind." 

She does not believe him, he can tell by her eyes, but when she asks to write to his aunt he agrees. By the time the milk of poppy has taken effect and she has fallen asleep, Tyrion has changed his mind. He can blame Jaime for spending his time with the woman he loves rather than the wife who just lost his son due to his bastard nephew-son. More than one rebellion has been caused by similar actions, after all. He intends to wait for Jaime in his rooms, but when he finds his brother asleep in his bed, he takes the water basin from it's shelf and empties it over Jaime's head. 

Jaime still smells like Cersei's perfume and is still wearing the clothes he had been yesterday, spluttering protests and water, but Tyrion glares down at him. He has no patience for this right now, and his headache is coming back. He isn't sure whether the milk of poppy that Joy slipped into the wine is losing effect or if it's Jaime himself causing it, but he can't bring himself to care. 

"While you spent the night in Cersei's bed, your lady wife sent for me because she was having nightmares about your _son_ ," he spits out the last word like a curse. He knows the power he holds over his siblings, but he has never told a soul about their love. About their children. He has never even considered it, until this moment, "beating her until she lost her babe." 

Jaime has gone pale, has stopped trying to complain, but Tyrion just wants to be back in his own rooms where he doesn't have to think about the disaster that is their family. Perhaps he'll go down to Baelish's whorehouse, which is decidedly more pleasant now that Baelish himself is gone. It isn't as if there will be many chances later.  

"I attempted to calm her down by telling her that Lady Stark wanted her to write to her, but that caused her to go into hysterics because she thought she killed her father and direwolf," he throws the basin on the bed, letting it thump harmlessly onto the sheets and wishing instantly that he had thrown it at Jaime's head instead, "so instead of recovering from whatever it is you and our _sweet sister_  did all night, get up and go comfort your _wife_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion/Joy anyone?
> 
> The good news is, I finally decided who Nissa Nissa will be. The bad news is that you're all going to hate me for it. Ah well, at least we have plenty of chapters before then.
> 
> Who do you want for our Northern POV in the chapter after next? Cat isn't in Winterfell yet, so options are pretty limited. I'm hesitant to use Robb, so I think we're stuck with Jeyne.
> 
> And the important question: do you want me to write up the theories I'm using after they're revealed? Things like Young Griff's parentage or Danys prophecies or weird Riverlands things might now be all that clear in the flow of the story.


	14. Lady Lannister III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can still feel the bruises, and sometimes the hands that caused them too, but she does not mind pain if it means Joffrey cannot touch her again.

5/1/300

The journey south had been a dream come true for Sansa Stark of Winterfell. 

She had cried when she bid farewell to her mother, but had soon forgotten her sorrow. Every day the weather had become warmer, and slowly the furs and heavy dresses of the North had given way to silks and lace. The morning after they crossed the Neck, the Queen had dressed in the finest crimson gown Sansa had ever seen. Even the silver-blue dress that her mother had worn for her wedding was not so beautiful, and when the queen's eyes caught on Sansa's plain, grey wool skirts and dull cloak trimmed with wolf-fur Sansa had felt like a peasant girl. The next day she wore the dresses she had in the Riverlands style, but Arya hadn't worn a dress at all and she could feel the queen's gaze on her stupid, wild little sister. 

Sansa had hated Arya for that. If she was to marry Joffrey she needed to be on good terms with the queen, and Arya had ruined all that with her riding pants and swordplay. She had blamed Arya for many weeks for Lady being sent away, blamed their father too when he was the one who saved her direwolf. She had been a stupid girl of twelve, and did not know mercy when she saw it. Cersei had wanted Lady killed, would have done it too if not for her father. In place of Lady's fur, the queen had taken her father's head. 

Joy had woken her before the sun came up, her hands gently as she nudged her shoulder. Sansa was tired still, dreams of the sharp smell of snow lingering in her head, but the distinctive sweet smell of lavender told her that her maid had been awake for many hours already. While she slipped into the bath, letting the heat wash away the pain, Joy had fixed the bed and folded her nightgown into the last trunk remaining in the room. She ordered Joy to see to the last of her things, while Jeyne dressed her.

Pycelle appeared soon after she woke, frowning as he examined her and pressing a basket of potions and poultices into Joy's hands. He gives instructions, but Sansa is hardly listening. She knows the creams by smell, not sight, and although she is grateful for the maester's aid she just wants to leave. Perhaps she will regret it once she is in the rocking wheelhouse, but even that is better than remaining within Joffrey's reach one day longer. Lord Tywin seemed to agree, for when she had pleaded that she was well enough to travel he had ignored Pycelle's complaints.

It was too hot in King's Landing, even now in the early hours of the morning, to wear the furs of the North, but Jeyne drew her hair into the loose style of Winterfell without having to be told. When Sansa was dry, Jeyne slid a grey-and-gold dress over her shoulders, the skirts heavier than those she usually wore, and fastened the front of the bodice with Sansa's favorite dragonfly clasps. The dress is in the long, sweeping style of a court lady, and Sansa will regret it in the heat of the day, but the weight of her skirts gives her some comfort. They remind her of the North. 

The room is empty by the time Jeyne is done, and she sends the nervous handmaiden to fetch her guards while she looks into the mirror. She looks more like her mother than she wants to admit, looks like Robb and Bran and Rickon too; she looks away before she can start crying. It would not do to have Jaime put off the trip because he thinks she is hurting. She admits Ser Daven into the rooms, as Jeyne checks them one last time. His silver-gold hair is clean and tied back, and he is grinning widely enough to make Sansa smile as well. 

"You seem happy, Ser Daven," the knight laughs, not the cruel, high-pitched sound Joffrey makes, but a laugh that comes from his belly and Sansa smiles wider at his glee. 

"Lord Tywin has decided that a Frey makes a better handmaiden than wife, and I will soon see my beautiful sisters, Lady Sansa. This is a good day!" Sansa remembers belatedly that his father owns no lands, but is close enough to the main branch of House Lannister that his daughters live in the Rock. "I thought my Uncle Edmure had disbanded House Frey?" 

"He has, and I am grateful to him for it! Because of him, I do not have to marry Roslin Frey. My father wished for me to marry a Redwyne before he died, and I will be able to honor his wishes." 

"That is good," Sansa tried to remember the book she had read on the Lannisters, "is she to be a handmaiden to Cerenna or Myrielle?" 

"Perhaps, or to you, my Lady, Lord Tywin did not say." 

"I am glad for you. I look forward to meeting your sisters." 

"And they you. Lord Tywin says that Cerenna will still be at the Rock when we arrive, although I expect she'll depart soon afterward." 

"Where is she going?" 

"To Highgarden," Ser Daven seemed sad at that, but he was still smiling, "she is betrothed to Willas Tyrell, and will be the Lady of Highgarden before the year is over." 

Sansa had no answer. Lady Olenna had seemed kind when she tried to marry her to Willas, but the moment Sansa was unavailable she found a Lannister to replace her. She knew she shouldn't feel betrayed, the Tyrells had no loyalty to her, even her own brother had traded her off, but she did nonetheless. It took her a moment to compose herself, but this was Ser Daven's sister and he had been kind to her these last weeks, "I am glad for her. I hope she will be happy." 

"Cerenna makes her own happiness, my Lady. She will love the Reach." 

Jeyne came trotting across the floor from her rooms, a bag clutched to her side, nodding to Sansa as she came close, "everything is ready, Sansa." 

She took Ser Daven's arm, leaning more of her weight on him than she liked, but he made no complaint. Jeyne stayed close as they made their way through the Red Keep, her eyes darting about every time they encountered so much as a squire. Ser Daven was quieter too, although his smile remained in place. His hand had drifted to his sword, and he looked behind them as they turned corners. Two guards opened the doors for them as they exited, and Sansa's step faltered when she saw Joffrey and the queen awaited her. Her hand spasmed around Ser Daven's arm, and he glanced down at her as they approached. 

"Little dove, are you sure you're in a state to travel?" The queen stepped from her father's side toward her, for what purpose Sansa did not know, and she tried not to flinch backward, to think of the North. She was a Stark and she could be brave, but that thought led her to remember her father and Cersei had killed him. Joffrey had shown her his head. 

A hand wrapped around her own, and Tyrion was kissing her hand and smiling up at her. It was not the warm smile Ser Daven wore, it was cold and did not meet his eyes, but he stood between Sansa and his sister. For that, she was grateful, "good morning, sweet sister, I am glad to see that you are well." 

"Thank you, Lord Tyrion," she did not let go of Ser Daven's arm – she was not convinced she could stand without it – as she curtseyed slightly to the queen. "I am sure, my Queen, but I thank you for your concern." 

"You will write to me, won't you Sansa," Margaery Tyrell stood next to her husband, one hand placed protectively on her stomach, and Sansa didn't know if the feeling that bloomed in her chest was envy or relief, "you have been a good friend to me in King's Landing and I will miss you." 

"Of course, Queen Margaery," perhaps their scheme to marry her to Willas had always been doomed to fail, but the Tyrell queen had visited her when she lay in her bed, unable to move. She had held her hand and read to her when Sansa was unable to lift her arms from the pillows, and Sansa would write to her for that, if nothing else, "I will miss you as well." 

Joffrey was standing only a meter away from her and everyone was acting as though this was normal. Even Lord Tywin and Tyrion didn't so much as glance to the king as the women spoke, and Sansa was willing to leave it alone. She only wanted to descend the stairs and climb into the wheelhouse that awaited her. Casterly Rock was not Winterfell, but so long as Joffrey was not there she would go gladly. Cersei had stepped back to stand beside Jaime, her gaze not quite a glare but carrying the same heat as one.  

Tywin had turned to Jaime and was saying something, but Sansa couldn't hear them over the ringing in her ears. Tyrion was speaking as well, but she did not hear him either. "I'm sure you're pleased to be going to Casterly Rock," that she did hear, and she wanted nothing more than to tear her arm from Ser Daven's and go down the steps herself. If she did that she would shame Jaime, shame all of this strange new family, and most of all shame herself, "most prisoners are treated to the Black Cells instead of the crown of the Westerlands." 

"I am not a prisoner, my king," she hears herself say it, but had not told her mouth to form the words, "I am Lady Lannister, and Casterly Rock is my home." 

"You are-" the words are a snarl, but he does not get to finish the thought. 

"Enough." Tywin Lannister did not raise his voice, but Ser Daven stiffened beside her. There is no request in his voice, only finality. "Tyrion, escort your good sister to her carriage." 

The dwarf's hand closes around hers, but she does not let go of Ser Daven when she follows. There is a brief jarring, but then the knight is walking alongside her. Joy is waiting by the carriage's open door, and when Sansa comes near she climbs inside and reaches back to aid her. Jeyne scrambles in behind her, and Ser Daven shuts the door firmly behind them. Joy secures the inside latch. It insures the door does not jar open on the road, but it makes Sansa feel safer nonetheless. It would not stop a knight, but it might stop the king. 

She can hear Joffrey shouting, and when she looks out the window Queen Margaery is gone. Cersei is standing beside her son, and Jaime is coming down the stairs. She can see that Lord Tywin is saying something, but she cannot hear him and does not know anything that would calm Joffrey. She does know one thing, but if Tywin Lannister wanted her dead she would already be dead. By the time Jaime reaches them, Tyrion is mounted on his chestnut mare and Jaime's white is shaking her head impatiently. 

"Sansa?" Joy opens the door quickly, allowing Jaime to duck inside the wheelhouse. He is holding something golden in his hand as he kneels in front of her. When he reaches behind her neck Sansa has to force herself not to flinch. Jaime has never hurt her, but she has been hurt too much anyway. He fumbles for a moment, clumsy with only one hand. Joy moves to help him, and then Sansa is wearing the heaviest necklace she has ever seen. 

It is made of gold – pure gold, if the weight was any indication – and in addition to the large ruby at the front it is dotted with smaller ones. She can feel them even when she cannot see them, right up to the clasp at the back of her neck. She does not need to turn the symbol on the bottom to know what it is. The lion has eyes made of rubies, and holds one in it's roaring mouth as well. Sansa does not know what to say, and for a moment is stuck staring down at the necklace. Then Joy's hands are gathering her hair and a headpiece that she did not get to look at but that she knows matches the necklace is set on her head. 

"Thank you." It is all she can say, because Jaime has crowned her in Lannister gold. She has seen this necklace before, Cersei wears it at important events, and Sansa wears small silver rings and a dragonfly pendant. The smile Jaime gives her is strangely apologetic. 

"You will not be the Lady of Casterly Rock until father dies, but these were my mother's jewels, and they belong to you nonetheless," Sansa is surprised that Cersei let him take them from her. She is the queen, after all, and would be able to command anything she wished. From somewhere outside the carriage, she hears Tyrion. 

"Cersei is the Baratheon queen and does not have a right to Lannister jewels. They belonged to our grandmother before our mother, and I believe they were made before the Lannisters bent the knee to the dragon kings." Jaime turns to see his brother, who nods to where Tywin now stands alone at the top of the stairs. 

"Tyrion and I will ride at the front of the procession" Jaime explains, "Ser Daven will ride just behind the wheelhouse. Do not come out for anyone else other than us or him." 

He climbs back down, taking the reins of his white mare while Joy shuts the door again. After she arranges the clasp, she bars the door as well, then turns to Jeyne. "If there is any trouble, take the covers from under the seat and secure them over the windows." 

Sansa is still holding the necklace in one hand in a sort of shock, but Joy moves quickly. While her handmaidens sit in a true seat, Sansa's is covered in blankets and pillows. Joy kneels by her feet to help her swing her legs into the blankets, arranging them carefully. She adjusts the pillows behind her neck and back, then fishes through one of the few trunks that isn't attached to the top of the wheelhouse and produces the books Tyrion gave to Sansa the morning after she married Jaime.  

"Thank you," Sansa has often shunned the girl because she is a Lannister, offered niceties and platitudes in place of honesty, but she looks Joy in the eyes now so that she understands that Sansa means these from her heart. Jeyne is a good friend to her and a reminder of the home she has lost, but she is not clever or trained like Joy is. While Sansa lay in bed half-dead, Joy assured that she would be comfortable and engaged on the journey to the Rock. 

"Of course, Lady Sansa, I am just sorry that the roads are unsuitable to your sewing." 

"Call me Sansa, Joy, please. Tell me, are there septas at Casterly Rock?" The younger girl paused, thinking. 

"There is one, Sansa. Septa Lynora was Lady Joanna's half-sister. She was Lord Jaime and Queen Cersei's septa, but now she serves Lady Dorna. If you want a septa, Lord Jaime can send for one. I'm sure he'd be happy to if he was asked." 

"I would like to chose the woman," her own septa lay dead at Joffrey's hands. She did not want a cruel or weak woman near her children. Wolf or lion, they were still hers. 

"There are many in Lannisport. Lord Jaime can call them to the Rock and you may speak to them," Joy says.  

Sansa is looking down at the golden lion at her neck. The jewels that belong to the Lady of Casterly Rock. To her. She lied to Joffrey, she is a Stark and Winterfell is her home, but Winterfell is also Lady Jeyne's home, and Robb's wife will run the castle. Not her. One of her hands is lost in her too-thick skirts, the other touching the rubies set in the gold. She reaches up to take the tiara off her head, and when she sees the gold that once crowned the Queens of the Rock she has no words for it. This crown could buy Winterfell.  

In a way, it has.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys not like Tyrion POVs or do I not write them well? Because I was planning on him having a few chapters, but I can cut down on them.
> 
> Sorry for no update yesterday, training took longer than I thought it would. Would you guys prefer an every-other-day update, or an availability update, where you might get them daily for a while, and then skip a couple days.


	15. Lady Stark III

5/6/300

The morning had dawned bright and cold, but within the castle it was warm.  

Jeyne was not sure how. Robb had said something about hot springs and boiling water when she asked, but her mother said that a castle could not be built over water. Jeyne knew nothing about any of it, but she knew that when she sat close to the wall it was warmer. She had taken to having Eleyna leave her furs against the walls in the evenings, so in the morning they would be warm enough to chase away the chill of the night.  

Rather than moving his mother from the rooms she had occupied when his father was the Lord of Winterfell, Robb had abandoned Lord Stark's rooms to stay in ones that adjoined hers. He had mentioned having a new doorway installed between the lord's rooms and another, but had decided to talk to his mother first. Jeyne knew her own mother was angry about her not having Lady Stark's rooms, but she cared little. She had Robb, and that was all she had wanted.  

All day yesterday Jeyne's back had ached. She felt it everywhere, no matter what she was doing. Sitting hurt, standing was worse, and when she lay down she was too uncomfortable to sleep. She even had trouble walking, and only the warm bath that Beth brought had been any comfort. She had suggested seeing a maester, but mother had dismissed those concerns. She had carried four babes, and Beth none, and thus Jeyne obeyed her. She did not know Beth well enough to trust her. 

The Northern girl was nervous around her, and although Robb had made her Jeyne's handmaiden, she was rarely in her rooms. Mother had suggested that she dismiss the girl, as she clearly hated her new southron lady, but Jeyne had refused. Robb had told her of how Beth's father died defending Winterfell, and Jeyne suspected that Beth was still grieving. She could not be angry at her for that. 

Still, Beth was distant, and Jeyne did not like it. She had been hoping for weeks to form a stronger bond with her handmaiden. Although she still felt sick, she could not stay in a bath all day. Instead, Jeyne settled in her sitting room with her sister and sent for her mother, for her Northern handmaiden, and for the wildling girl that carried her nephew. Her mother arrived first, taking a seat between she and Eleyna and laying out her sewing. She was making Jeyne's son a gown to ward against the winter chill, six escallops argent against the beige fabric. Jeyne did not like that the gown was not embroidered with the Stark sigil, but her mother would not hear that. She already feared that the babe would die of the winter chill. 

Robb had dismissed the thought, but Jeyne even feared going to the sept to pray. It was made for Lady Catelyn, Robb said, but she does not think her good mother would mind sharing. The Northerners pray in the godswood, but she cannot pray among only trees and snow . The last time she was in the sept, she had prayed to the Mother for her babe and for Lady Catelyn's safe return. She usually prayed to the Maiden, but it does not seem right now. She is a wife and not a maiden. Instead, she asked the Crone to guide Robb and the Smith to give Robb strength in rebuilding his home. She had prayed to the Stranger too, asking that he help Bran and Rickon in death. She did not know them, but now they were her brothers too. 

The red haired wildling arrived next, dressed in the style of Northern men, in woolen pants and leather boots, and a cloak of wolf fur that Robb had gifted her. She had brought with her a strange mass of furs, which she sat next to her in the chair across from Jeyne. She made no greeting, but Jeyne smiled at here nevertheless, "I am glad you joined us." 

"No reason not too," she produced a fur pouch and from it plucked a needle and thread, twisting the furs with expert hands as she worked. Mother did not like her, but she was a good storyteller and while she rarely started a conversation, she was not afraid to speak her mind. Besides that, Robb had assured her that the girl was more likely to defend her from attackers than to harm her, "this must be finished before the babe comes." 

"Have you thought of names?" She and Robb had discussed names for their son already. Robb offered to let her name it if it was a girl, but she knew it would be a son. Her husband wanted to name a son Eddard, and she had agreed. Robb had gone to war for his father, she couldn't deny him the name of their son after that. She knew better than to voice it, but in a way his father had brought them together. 

"Among the Free Folk, it's ill luck to name a babe before it's lived two years." 

"A barbaric tradition," Jeyne winced at her mother's tone, worse even than the dull pain in her back, "how do you tell one babe from the next for two years?" 

The wildling girl grinned sharply at the woman, "in the true north, most babes die before they've lived a year. Can't think a woman from the far south would know anything about that. You can hardly manage in a lord's warm castle." 

The door opened before her mother could reply, the bickering cut off by the arrival of the Northern girl. Beth Cassel wore a grey dress with narrow sleeves and black furs over her shoulders. She smiled when she saw Jeyne, and curtseyed awkwardly, but she sat with neither the Jeyne's family nor the wildling girl. Her curly auburn hair was loose over her shoulders as she eagerly showed Jeyne her new project, tiny socks embroidered with wolves, a gift for Jeyne's son. 

They were only half-finished, but Jeyne held them carefully so she would not harm the beautiful needlework and reached for Beth's hands, "thank you. They'll be one of the first things he wears, I promise." 

"If we were back at the Crag it would not need socks to prevent it from freezing," her mother pointed out. Beth paled, but made no reply. She took the socks back and Jeyne offered an apologetic smile. It would do no good to argue with her mother, but she did not want Beth to feel as if her gift was not wonderful. 

"Go back," Ygritte retorted. She meant to irritate Sybell. There was no lost love between her and the Northern woman. Beth had told her that wildlings would steal women from their castles and take them back over the Wall. It was only Robb's love of his brother that kept this one safe. 

"They are beautiful, nonetheless," Jeyne ignored her mother and reached for the warm tea she had taken to keeping near her. Robb had brought as many leaves as she could want when they came from the Riverlands, but when summer came again they would need to send for more. Her stomach had joined her back in aching today, and only heat seemed to be able to help. Perhaps she would retire early and have Eleyna draw her a warm bath. Wincing, she rested a hand over her belly and waited for the pain to pass. 

"You hurt?" The wildling was staring at her, her blue-grey eyes unsettling. Jeyne knew she had only come here because it suited her own interests, otherwise she'd be out where ever she pleased, inside Winterfell or out. She hoped that they had become something of friends, as usually when Jeyne asked her to visit, she came. 

"I'm fine, thank you," she answered, taking another long drink of her tea, "I have been sore for a few days. Mother thinks it’s the cold." 

"Not gotten any colder these last few days," she stabbed her needle into the ball of furs and stilled, "it's a bit warmer, even." 

"Oh. I haven't been outside in weeks," she was afraid the cold would hurt her babe, and she was not used to it. She did not like the heavy furs of the North, and although she resented her mother for saying it, she did miss the warm winters of the Crag. 

"You hurt here?" Ygritte pressed her fingers below her belt, "between your hips?" 

Jeyne thought about it, gently touching her own body where the wildling had indicated. She was still too afraid of pronouncing her name wrong to say it, but she nodded as she looked up. "Yes, but I do not hurt. It only feels uncomfortable." 

"And your belly? That uncomfortable too?" 

"Yes, but sometimes it feels worse than normal." 

Setting aside the fur bundle, the wildling stood, but her mother jumped between her and the girl, "you stay away from her. She doesn't need your kind poisoning her babe, putting strange thoughts in her head." 

"Mother!" Jeyne protested sharply, but Ygritte turned to Beth. The Northern girl had stood, but made no move toward them. 

"You want your lord's babe to live? Best you get your maester," Jeyne's hands froze on the fabric she held, the scolding dying on her lips. Beth's eyes had gone wide, and she darted to the door. The wildling placed her hand on Sybell's shoulder and pushed her aside roughly, taking Jeyne's shoulder more gently. "Lie on your left side until he gets here." 

Jeyne did as she was told, too shocked to protest, but her mother grabbed the wildling and pulled her back ,"get away from my daughter!" 

"You are no midwife. When the girl told you she was hurting you should have sent her to someone who is, but instead you tell her it's the cold? You wanted the babe to die? Or you're just a fool?" 

"There's nothing wrong with my son!" Jeyne cried, but she didn't dare move.  

"No there isn't," Sybell agreed, "sit up Jeyne, you look like a fool." 

"That girl don't trust me," Ygritte nodded to the door that Beth had fled through, "if she thought I was lying she'd not have left me with Stark's lady. She thinks what I did." 

"You might have scared her so badly you jarred the babe!" 

"Touch me again and you'll need that maester yourself." 

"Enough!" Robb's voice was sharp and Jeyne cried in relief to hear it. Behind him was Beth, who looked nervously between the older women. "Jeyne, what's wrong?" 

"I felt odd yesterday, and today my stomach hurts. Mother said it was the cold and gave me tea, but she thinks it's the babe!" Robb knelt beside her to embrace her, letting her sob into his shirt. 

"Why do you think something's wrong?" 

The wildling girl had stilled when Robb arrived, ignoring Sybell as if she was not there. She went back to her chair, collecting the things she had just brought into the room, "my aunt lost a babe like this. My mum told me then that if I had pressure here when I carried a babe I might lose it." Ygritte nodded down at them, "keep her calm and on her left side. I never delivered a babe alone though, you'd listen to the maester over me." 

Then she was gone, back down the hall, likely to find a place where she would be free to finish whatever she had been doing with those furs. Her mother was shouting now, arguing with Beth, and although the pain was not increasing as it was before, once Jeyne focused on the strange pressure she could not stop. 

"Quiet, quiet!" Maester Medrick carried a bag with him, and he glared at the women as he entered, a young man behind him. "Both of you out! Your shouting could upset Lady Jeyne." 

"She is my daughter and I-" Robb had looked up at the maester's entrance, and now he nodded to the man behind him. 

"Escort Lady Sybell and Beth outside, please."  

The maester knelt beside her, ignoring the rest of them, "what has happened?" 

"My back hurt all day yesterday, and this morning my stomach started too as well," Jeyne again touched the place Ygritte had indicated, "there is pressure here. Mother thought it was the cold, but..." 

The man gently felt her stomach, then looked to Robb, "bring her into her rooms. I will examine her." 

Robb collects her gently, and Eleyna follows as he carries her into her rooms. He sits her gently on the bed, and holds he hand as the maester examines her. The man is quick, and after only a minute he turns to her sister. "Have a bath drawn, quickly." 

"Beth will still be in the hall," Robb offers, and Eleyna turns to fetch the girl.  

"Have men bring the water," Medrick orders. The maester moves around behind her to unlace her dress, and Jeyne holds it to her chest in alarm as it comes free. Even the pain has not dulled her sense of propriety. Once that is done, he kneels before her as if he was a maid and gently removes her shoes, "Lord Stark, perhaps you should wait outside." 

"Don't leave me." Robb slips an arm around her shoulders, letting her cling to him. 

"I will stay here," the maester set her shoes aside, rolling her hose down her legs quickly. Jeyne could feel the blush creeping up her face, but it was overridden by another wave of pain. It isn't worse than it had been when she woke up, but now she wondered if she should have gotten a maester last night. Ygritte was right: her mother was no mid-wife. She leaned into Robb, her hand clutching his tunic, and closed her eyes to wait out the pain.  

Instantly, she is being swooped off the bed. When she opens her eyes, her dress and chemise are gone, and she is in Robb's arms. He is staring down at her, eyes like a startled cat, and then she is plunged into the heat of bathwater. Beth is by her side now, cleaning the back of her neck with a cloth and urging her to lie deeper in the water. But the water shouldn't be here yet? It would have taken half an hour for the water to be heated, and then they had to carry it up the stairs to her room. 

Last night, the water soothed her back, but she is still aching, the pain has turned into a sharp throb. She has been stuck with a pin when she tried on a half-finished dress before, and the pain is similar but a hundred times worse. She wants to ask for Eleyna, but her breath catches in her throat. Instead, she settles for wrapping her arms around her belly. The water is too warm, but the maester has a hand on her shoulder to keep her still and Beth is dripping water over her with the cloth.  

The pain is only getting worse, and it is becoming unbearable. She reaches for Robb, but he is gone. Instead, Beth takes her hand, letting Jeyne clutch it tightly as she cries out. The maester is saying something, hurrying around the room, and Jeyne is too busy hugging her arms around herself and trying not to scream to hear. She is looking down at her body in the water, praying for the Mother's mercy when she sees it. There is blood in the water, only a trickle at first, a deep red that spreads until it fills the bath, the color fading at first, but then darkening. 

Maester Medrick presses something to her lips, and she drinks on instinct. Beth's arms wrap under her shoulders as the pain begins to fade, and Jeyne can hear someone screaming at the edge of her senses. What had she done for this to be the Father's judgment? She will have another Stark to pray to the Stranger for. Another Eddard for Robb to mourn. Jeyne wants to pray to the Maiden again. 

 _"_ _Jeyne_ _, can you hear me?_ _"_  

She can, but what does it matter? A woman's worth is in the babes she carries, in their heirs she gives her husband. Lady Catelyn carried five children to term, and she cannot give life to one. What must Robb's mother think of her now? It matters less than she thought it would. She wants her own mother, for all of Sybell's flaws she loves her children fiercely. But this is Robb, and he loves her too. She opens her mouth to tell him that she can hear him, to ask what he wants, but the words do not come. 

 _"I know it hurts, but you must be strong, my love. It is for the best."_  

It would be better if she could be strong. If she was strong enough to keep her son alive, strong enough to live after losing her babe. She thinks on the wildling girl. Would Ygritte weep if she lost the babe she carried? Her words come back to Jeyne, she had said that it was bad luck to name a child before it turns two. She named hers before he had left her womb. _Ill luck_. Jeyne has never prayed to Robb's gods before, but if they grant her another babe she will keep to that custom, she promises. She knows little of them, perhaps they cannot hear her unless she says it before a weirwood. She does not mind saying it again if it will keep her children alive. 

 _"She will wake soon."_  

When she does, she knows it has been many days since she was in her sitting room. There is no tub in the center of the room and the curtains are drawn to block out any light. She does not know if it is night or sunhigh. For one blissful moment, she has forgotten how she ended up here. She does not know why she is in this bed, why her stomach feels like it is being torn out of her, why a great grey wolf lies on the end of her bed.  

Her mother hates wolves. 

The world passes by her in a haze. Her ears are buzzing, always buzzing, and she drinks the milk of the poppy the maester brings, grateful for sleep. Her cheeks are never dry, but after some time, the wrenching sobs pass. Because the pain in her heart fades or because her body cannot take anymore of them, she does not know. They say her mother sat with her often while she was asleep, that Robb had to order her from her bedside, but she does not come now. 

Robb is there. He sits with her every evening, tells her about the running of the castle and the rebuilding. She can hear him, she is not asleep, but she is sinking into oblivion. She feels as if everything is happening too slowly, even her own thoughts. Eleyna has them bring her favorite foods, but she does not eat. Everything is wrong, and no one understands the feelings that bubble in her chest. Robb seems distant, or perhaps she has changed. He is the one light in her world, but it is fading quickly. Jeyne is drowning in nothingness. 

She can do nothing right. When she does eat, she drops the food or flips the tray, her hands do not obey her orders, they are clumsy and slow. After many days, she cries in Robb's arms because she feels like a failure, if she cannot protect her babe what use is she? He says that it is not her fault, promises that one day they will have another babe, but the walls are closing in around her. Jeyne has heard of women who cannot carry a child to birth, Selyse Florent and Lysa Tully come to mind, she wonders if she will be like them. If Robb will have to set her aside or let a Lannister rule Winterfell. 

Even after the maester has assure her that this is not true, it still seems as though it is. She can remember everything she has done wrong, even the time she stole a doll from Eleyna as a girl. When she sobs in her sister's arms and apologizes, it seems to confuse Eleyna, and that only upsets her more. Robb has excused Rollam from his duties as a squire to guard her, but she cries because of that and because his presence reminds her that it is her fault Raynald and father are captives.

Perhaps it would be better for Robb if she had died along with their son. He would not have to remove her to take another wife, then. It was not as if he did not have choices. She had seen Wylla Manderly's eyes when they were introduced, had seen Maege Mormont watching her as well. The She-Bear had five daughters and a granddaughter. Had Robb not fallen in love with her, he could have had his choice of the Northern houses.  

He could still. 

One day, Ygritte appears in her chambers. She has brought with her the strange furs she was working on so long ago, but they do not look as odd now. The wildling woman has crafted them into a cocoon of sorts, and it catches her attention when Ygritte sits in the chair that is Robb's in the evening, "hello." 

Jeyne is too tired for any sort of manners. The day is gloomy, and her only comfort is the bright light that falls on her furs and Grey Wind's warm body against her back. She forces a stiff smile, which fades just as quickly, "I've not seen you in many days." 

"Almost a moon," Ygritte agrees, "I finished the coat." 

The thing she carries does not look like a coat, "that's a coat?" 

Ygritte stands and wraps herself into the furs. It looks strange, but the wildling woman holds it together at the center with one hand. It looks strange on her, almost like Jeyne's own tunics, "a belt goes here. Haven't made that yet. Then the babe goes inside." She strips out of it, holds it against her chest so Jeyne can see the cocoon of furs that wrap around the baby. 

"It's lovely." 

"It's yours." Jeyne stares uncomprehendingly at the fur coat she is being offered. Ygritte does not bother to hold it out, just drapes it over the bed at Jeyne's side, where Grey Wind sniffs at it. The fur it is made of belonged to a wolf once, and it is black and shimmering in the sunlight. 

"What about your babe?" Ygritte's stomach is still full, she will need this long before Jeyne does. If she ever does. 

"I do not need one. Mine will stay here in Winterfell with your lord, and I will go back north," that rouses Jeyne. She pushes against the bed to bring herself into a sitting position.  

"You're leaving your babe?" 

"I do not belong in the south, in some lord's castle." 

"But why not take the babe with you?" 

Ygritte considers her carefully, "babes die often in the cold of the north." 

"Do all wildling women seek castles to give birth in?" 

"No. Not all of our babes have a lordling for a father. There are things in the north that your lord and his people do not know about." 

"Tell me, then, and I will know," Jeyne could never have left her son behind. 

The wildling girl snorted a laugh, "my mother's sister had a son. He died in the cold, and rose again that night, with eyes of ice blue. Not just him. Now we burn the bodies of our dead as soon as we find them. We put guards in our camp too, for if we don't find them in time." 

"Dead men come back to life?" 

"Not life. They were alive, they wouldn't be killing their kin. When I was a girl we were alone in the north. We feared animals and other free folk, but we knew how to survive. Now we ring our camps with fire to ward them off," Ygritte paused, her eyes far away, "it normally works. One night, it was so cold the fires would not stay it. Half my group was dead by morning. When I told Jon Snow that I carried his babe, he begged me to take it to his father's castle. 

"We made a pact, him and I, and here I am, with the babe in my belly. Once it is born, I leave and it stays. I will honor my word, but I will not stay here." 

"You will not even name him?" 

"I'm certain your lord can do that," Ygritte's smile was grim. "Do you intend to die in your bed? If you do, give my gift to my babe's wet nurse." 

"If the gods are cruel." 

"The gods? You do not eat, you do not seek the sun, what can the gods do? Sometimes, a woman loses a child, she does not want to get back up. It is easier to die." 

A spark that Jeyne had not felt in many days flared in her chest. She glared at the wildling, setting one hand to Grey Wind's great muzzle. The wolf turned to lie his head on her legs, "I do not _want_  to die." 

"Then get up." 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that "was Jeyne pregnant" debate? In this story, yes. Her babe was conceived before Robb left her at Riverrun when he went to the Twins. Like modern birth control, moon tea can cause late-term problems if you manage to get pregnant while using it.


	16. The Kingslayer II

5/7/300

The roads seemed more difficult than they had in years past. 

Granted, the last time Jaime had traveled these roads he had the use of two hands and no prince to protect. Even a large group of riders could travel faster than a wheelhouse. They would have reached the Rock sooner if they had waited for Sansa to heal enough to sit a horse, but Tywin had made it clear that he did not care how quickly they arrived at their destination. The sooner Sansa and Tommen were out of King's Landing, the better. 

It had been a slow trek. Tyrion joined Jaime at the front, and although he was still irritated at being sent from King's Landing he was better company than most. Tommen had ridden with them for a time, but for all of Cersei's insistence that Tommen sit a horse, he had quickly become sore and tired. Jaime would place him in the wheelhouse with Sansa and her ladies tomorrow, but he had to wonder what training the boy had received. At nine, Jaime had been one of the best swordsmen in Casterly Rock and an experienced horseman. 

As the sun began to set, they found a flat bit of ground, large enough for the tents but easy to protect, and stopped to set up camp. Although they were only some sixteen kilometers from King's Landing, there were few noble houses near the Gold Road here. Jaime sent Willem off to insure that Sansa's tent was set up, and turned his horse toward the back of the party, intending to see to the guards himself. 

Although there were few threats now, Cersei's paranoia rang in Jaime's ears. He had lost a hand to his first imprisonment, he didn't intend to repeat the experience. While Jaime doubted that the Tullys would or the Tyrells could sneak an army through these open fields to attack them, he still assigned enough guards to assure that any threat would be seen long before getting close enough to attack. He would not feel truly safe until they were deep within the Westerlands.  

He found his wife and brother in his tent, Cersei's son sat between them. The boy had already been peeled out of his riding clothes and smelt of herbs. If he was hurt after a day's ride, Jaime doubted the boy would have any desire to spend weeks on horseback. When Tywin had asked him to teach the boy how to rule the Stormlands, he had thought that most of the lessons would be about ruling. A second son should have already begun to learn the skills of a knight. Then again, if Joffrey was any indication, the children had never had those lessons either. 

"Uncle Jaime!" Tommen had paused in eating to grin at him, "Aunt Sansa says that I can ride in the wheelhouse with her tomorrow. She said I can help her remember the houses of the Westerlands." 

"Do you know all the houses of the Westerlands?" Jaime helped himself to the food the maids had set out. They had eaten lunch in the saddle, and listening to Tommen's complaints about that hadn't made him less hungry.  

"Yes. Septa Margot taught us. She said that a prince must know all of the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms, so we learned."  

Jaime had never paid much attention to Cersei's children. He had tried after Joffrey was born. He had seen that Robert had no intention of being a father and tried to fill that role, but Cersei had ordered him to stay away. She was afraid that someone might notice how much they looked like him, see the attention he paid them, and suspect. For over a decade he had thought of them as Robert's children. He even tried to look for Baratheon traits in them, to convince himself that at least one of the younger children might be Robert's trueborn. It had never worked with Joffrey, but if he looked long enough he could see Robert in the younger two, Myrcella more than Tommen.

He had paid enough attention enough to know a few things, "Joffery doesn't know the houses of the Seven Kingdoms." Joffrey didn't even know the houses of the Crownlands. Jaime could distinctly remember a time when he had not even remembered who the Martells were. Upon being told, he had tried to demand that they send an army to help defeat Stannis. Jaime had left before hearing what Tywin had said to that.

"Joffrey spent more time with mother than we did. She said he was too free-spirited to sit still for such long lessons," Tommen was too busy trying to eat politely between talking to see the frown his uncles shared.  

"I'm certain Sansa will be glad of the company. After your legs feel better, I want you to sit a horse in the mornings and ride in the wheelhouse in the evenings. It will help you more than riding all day will," it was how Jaime had been taught, and it was a step towards Tommen being a warrior like Robert and a lord like Tywin. If Jaime could manage to keep the worse parts out of Tommen, he'd make a fine Lord Baratheon. "If you don't mind, Sansa." 

"Oh," she had been staring down at her plate since he came in, chewing slowly and nudging the food around to look busy, "no, my Lord, I would be glad to have Prince Tommen keep us company." 

"Excellent," Tyrion had already finished eating, and was now lounging back in his chair, draining the wine glass in his hand, "now, brother, if you'll excuse me I am quite tired. My legs are short, you see, and it makes riding more difficult." 

Sansa smiled, flushing, but Jaime knew his brother well enough to know he wasn't tired. He had designed a saddle many years ago that served him well. Tyrion was no more tired than Jaime himself and likely had either a whore or a new book in his tent. Jaime wouldn't be surprised if he had both awaiting him. 

"Thank you for eating with us, Lord Tyrion," Sansa offered, "and for fetching us from the wheelhouse." 

"It was my pleasure," Tyrion assured her, then turned to Tommen, "shall we walk together? Our tents are next to each other and I doubt your mother would be pleased if you were left alone." 

That caught Jaime's notice. He himself had dismissed Daven, but he hadn't seen Tommen's sword shield since he rode past them as they began to put up tents, "where is Ser Patrek?" 

"He went to secure Tommen's tent," Sansa volunteered. 

Cersei would have strangled the man. "I'll speak to him," Tyrion said, "He'll be riding with Ser Daven tomorrow." 

Tommen had scrambled off his chair, pausing beside Tyrion to turn and smile back, "I'll see you tomorrow, Lady Sansa." 

Once they were alone in the tent, Jaime glanced at Sansa. She still wore her long dress in the style of King's Landing, with the jeweled necklace at her neck. She was pushing her food about her place, taking small bites and chewing slowly. She, like his brother and nephew, had nearly finished eating before he arrived. That was his own fault, he knew. He should have ordered one of the senior men to organize the guard, but he missed being out in the field with them. Not long ago he would have been riding about giving commands while the royal family sat and ate, would have taken a shift himself, and talked with the men at the blazing campfire the guards had started. 

He missed his white cloak. He missed his hand.  

"Were the roads difficult?" 

"No, my lord. Joy saw to my comfort," Tyrion had selected the girl himself, he knew. The brothers had managed to surprise each other shortly before the wedding with their plans for Sansa's handmaidens. While Tyrion had felt that a familiar Lannister would help Sansa feel more comfortable around the family, Jaime had followed up on the girl that Cersei sent to Littlefinger.   

Just thinking of where he had found Jeyne Poole set his nerves on end. The girl was highborn, and could have been used as a hostage. The same could be said of Ned Stark, and Jaime still wasn't certain why they had killed the Stark septa. Tywin hadn't been pleased either when he heard of what Cersei had done. Tyrion had already sent an apology – and a bag of gold – for the septa's death, but Tywin had considered sending the Northern girl to Lady Catelyn at Riverrun as a gesture of good faith. 

Instead, Jaime insisted that the Starks would never have any sort of faith in them, and claimed her as one of Sansa's ladies. She still needed a third handmaiden, but she had begged him to send Cersei's loaned maid away and he had. He was not foolish enough to think that Cersei didn't see Sansa as competition. Why, he would never know, but he hoped to keep Sansa out of it. The marriage hadn't been her idea, and he doubted she would ever love him, but she didn't deserve to have Cersei's anger directed at her. In truth, Cersei didn't deserve to be angry.

"I'm glad she did. I apologize that we don't have a fourth tent, I believe they misunderstood my instructions," the bed, more of a thick, raised pallet than anything else, was smaller than what she had in King's Landing. Sansa was still bruised, never mind traumatized, and he would rather not hurt her, "I would sleep in Tyrion's tent if you prefer to be alone?" 

Jaime would sooner sleep in one of the many guard's tents, where six men crowded into each, but he would not have her refuse for his comfort. Tyrion was too likely to have strange women in his bed or lamps lit half the night over his desk, and he snored. 

"No, my Lord-" 

"Jaime." 

"No, Jaime, I would never send you from your own tent. I am your wife," Jaime didn't know if he should interpret the look she gave him as fright or hurt. He would rather she not be scared of him, but he has no desire to fuck her, save to prevent whatever it is his father intends to do if they have no heirs. Sansa is small and slight, and Jaime feared childbirth would endanger her more than a woman even a few years older. His own mother died in the birthing bed, and she was a woman grown. Before they were even married, Jaime had decided to keep out of Sansa's bed once Tywin had his grandchild. 

For many years, at least. He expected Sansa would want several children, as she had many siblings. 

"You are hurt," he can see the bruising along her wrist from here, and he does not want to think about the bruises or lashes under her clothes. Every time he sees them, he wants to strangle Joffrey. It would take him half the night to ride into King's Landing from here, and Jaime does not want to test Cersei's love for him by harming the king, "and I don't want to unintentionally hurt you more."  

"Pycelle said that I would- that we could..." Sansa's face is turning the color of her hair, and it takes her a moment to go on. Her hands have abandoned playing with the fork and instead buried themselves in her skirts under the table, "he said it would be safe to try for another babe once my bleeding stopped." 

Pycelle had also said that Sansa couldn't leave King's Landing until her bleeding stopped. That was why they waited a fortnight to leave, why he had been nervous about allowing her to practice walking, "It doesn't matter what Pycelle said. I do not want to hurt you, Sansa." 

"Lord Tywin expressed his desire for a heir to Casterly Rock," he would never have married them if he had not needed a heir. Depending on what he planned to do with House Westerling, he may need two, but Jaime has no wish to make Sansa feel worse.

"Nevertheless, he does not expect you to conceive a babe on the Gold Road," it was likely that he expected exactly that, but Tywin was not here, thus his opinion mattered less than Jaime's own, "we will try again once we reach Casterly Rock. You will be safe there." 

"They said I would be safe in King's Landing." Jaime does not want to tell her that they were fools, partially because he expects 'they' are some now-dead members of her family, and partially because he had told her that as well. He had thought Joffrey had the sense to leave his wife alone. For the past two weeks Jaime had been torn between being angry that he was not the one to walk in on Joffrey's cruelty and being angry that his sword hand was gone. In this state, he would have quickly been killed when he charged her attackers, but either way Tommen would now be king. He had been a kingslayer once for the people, he could be one again for his family. 

It is also one of the rare times that Sansa has not hidden behind her courtesies. He does not want to discourage that, "I am sorry, Sansa. I should have had a closer guard kept with you. I knew Joffrey was cruel to you, but I thought that being my wife would keep you safe. I swear to you, you will never have to be in his presence again if you do not want to be." 

"When the king calls, all must do his bidding." Sansa's eyes are cold and far away. Jaime thinks of the pyromancer Aerys sent to burn the city. He thinks of smuggling Cersei through the city so she could rid herself of the babe Robert put in her. Thinks of Joffrey's screams just that morning, when he wanted Sansa's head. Tywin remembered what he did, that when the body of Aerys had lay before the throne with his throat open, there had been a bloody dagger on Jaime's belt. He had reached for his sword with the wrong hand and Tywin had ordered him to join his wife and leave the city. 

"They already call me kingslayer. It is not as if they can say it twice." 

Sansa's eyes darted to the door, "you should not say such things!" 

"The men here are Lannister men. Even if they take me back to the capitol for treason, my father would sooner have their heads than mine." 

"And what of me?" 

"You said nothing against the king." 

"That does not mean they will not hurt me for your actions. After by brother's victory at Oxcross..." Sansa's voice faded.

"I was told of what Joffrey did. My father would not allow for you to be harmed either. He is not cruel when it does not serve a purpose, and he does not want House Lannister shamed." The maids have appeared, and when Joy pauses questioningly at his side, he moves so she can collect his plate as well.   

"Thank you." She does not believe him. He does not need to know her well to see that. Jaime does not know if he should be disappointed in himself or angry at Joffrey. Perhaps both. None of this is Sansa's fault. The girl who had come south would have believed him.

Tyrion had been furious in his telling of it, and although Jaime had only seen Sansa Stark on their journey North before they married, no woman deserved to be brutalized for something their kin had done. His thoughts are drawn to Elia Martell. He had loved her more than he ever had any woman save Cersei, and had she and Aegon lived he would have supported the boy's claim. Elia had been good and kind, she and her children had done nothing, but were slaughtered anyway for something her husband had done. They had not deserved that.  

Jaime pours himself a glass of wine, before the maids take that as well. They leave their glasses and the wine decanter, but when the rest has been removed Joy comes back to them. She pauses at Sansa's elbow, "I've set out your nightgown as you asked, Sansa, is there anything you need?" 

 His wife glances down to her bodice, secured by clips, "no, thank you, Joy. For tomorrow, could you bring the purple silk with white?" 

"Certainly, my Lady," Joy returns to her own tent, but not before giving Jaime a pointed look. He wonders if all of Westeros thinks him so evil as not to be gentle with his battered wife. Perhaps just all of King's Landing. Jaime follows her to the door to check on the guard, using securing the tent flap as an excuse. The man is still alert, which gives Jaime some hope for them, the men in King's Landing had been more and more incompetent of late. 

When he turns around Sansa is on the other side of the bed, facing away from him. Her thick grey dress, patterned with gold, had been draped over the chest in the corner of the room. There are no candles on the far side of the room, but Jaime recognized it. When Sansa had told him that she had no dresses, he had sought out Tyrion to find a dressmaker. He had heard nothing else about it until his brother presented him with a dozen dresses, all in Stark and Lannister colors. Sansa had lit up when she saw them, and thanked him repeatedly.  

She removed her kirtle as well, laying it over the dress, and there is a soft clatter as she places the dragonfly clips atop them. Jaime can see the bruises on her shoulder already, and he turns away as she removes her chemise. It is not all for her sake, he knows if he sees her bruises again his stump will itch all night, aching to take a blade to Joffrey. He would even settle for stabbing this king in the back, perhaps then it will bother him less when they accuse him of doing so to Aerys.  

Instead, he returns to the table and sets the glass down.  

He unbuckles his sword belt more slowly than even one hand can, then struggles with the harness of his fake hand. Sometimes he has someone to aid him, but he does not want to draw attention to his hand, and thus he usually manages it himself. He is so focused on the small buckles that he starts when another hand touches his. Sansa is dressed in a woolen nightgown that looks far too warm for the weather, her cheeks are flushed, her hands are trembling slightly, and she will not look him in the face. She unbuckles the leather with quick, gentle hands, and then offers the contraption to Jaime.  

Sansa is scared. She has good reason to be, she was beaten by Joffrey, abandoned for her brother's war, and married off to the Kingslayer. He knows that his family has not been kind to her. The closest they can claim is Tyrion preventing public abuse and Tywin warding off Joffrey after he has already done too much damage. He has no illusions concerning Cersei's kindness to a girl who's father had threatened her children. Yet Jaime had seen this side of Sansa before. His little wife had been trembling at Joffrey's wedding when she fetched the cup off the floor to spare Tyrion embarrassment, yet she had done it. Now she cannot even look at him, but she helped when she saw him struggling. 

She reminds him of Elia, a girl from the edges of the kingdom, too sweet and too fierce to be in King's Landing, but there nonetheless. Daughter to a Great House, a princess, and then a hostage. Cersei had been rejected for Elia, Margaery Tyrell for Sansa. Both had been shamed by their princes. Perhaps he would be able to protect this girl.  

"Thank you," he lays it on the table beside the belt, the maids will not be back tonight, "becoming left handed has been difficult."

 A smile flickers across her face, and she retreats to the bed again. Jaime puts out the candles and follows, leaving his own clothes on the floor. Jaime lies facing away from her, keeping well to his side of the bed. He does not wake up that way. From sharing her bed in the past, he knows that Sansa tends to be clingy in her sleep. This time she has wrapped herself about him like a squid, her head under his chin, one of her legs pulling one of his toward her, and her hair spread over her body, the pillows, and him. Soon he will need to dress and eat before he does out to have the men tear down the camp. The sooner they reach the Rock the better.  

He does not move just yet. Jaime cannot remember ever waking up with a warm body next to him before he married Sansa. There is something intoxicating about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the KL party is going to drop by a few noble houses, which will give us some character exploring to do. Expect more Jaime/Sansa.
> 
> I have a plot-induced Tywin chapter coming up soon and a fluffy Dany chapter, but it's mostly going to be a scattering of Jaime and Sansa POVs. Weird plot twist coming up, I hope you all don't abandon me for it :)
> 
> I'd love for you to tell me what you think! I tend to chatter when I reply to comments, but I always try to reply.


	17. Lady Lannister IV

5/8/300

It was the sound of dull scratching that woke Sansa.  

On the far side of the room, several candles were lit, but it was still dark outside. There was no light filtering through the tent walls, no clanking of armor, no pounding of boot-clad feet. The only sound were the soft whickers of the thousand horses tied around the camp and the strange, soft scratching. Sansa propped herself up on her elbow, blinking through the light to see her husband attempting to secure the laces of his shirt with one hand.  

He wore pants and riding boots, but his tunic and false hand still lay on the table next to him. His sword was there as well, and Sansa winced at the light shining off the naked steel. She could feel the flush across her face, but she pushed the blankets away and stood nevertheless. Not for the first time she was grateful for her nightgown. In King's Landing, most slept nude, but she could not stand to. As she pried herself from the bed, Jaime's movements stilled.  

They had rarely shared a morning in King's Landing. Even when one slept in the other's bed, they returned to their own chambers to prepare for the day, as all nobles did. Sansa could remember knocking on the door to her mother's room and having her father exit to his own chambers as he let her in. Although Sansa had never thought about it, she imagined now that Jaime's squire or a maid would help him dress, but it was so early that not even her handmaidens were awake.  

She approached on bare feet, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest to conceal what the wool gown could not. Jaime stared down at her as she approached, but the sympathy she felt urged her on. "I suppose you would find out eventually," he bit out the words, but seemed resigned. "I am sorry if I shame you. A young, pretty girl like you should not have had to wed a cripple." 

Jaime had sworn never to strike her. She repeated the thought in her mind until it turned into a chant as she came close. _H_ _e swore, he swore._ He let go of the laces when she lifted her hands to them, and she tied them carefully. Sansa was not brave enough to look him in the face while she stood so close, but when she had finished the laces she took a step back. There was shame amid the anger in his face, a look she had never thought to see in a Lannister, but his eyes searched her face carefully. It stuck Sansa like falling from a horse: he was afraid of her reaction to seeing his weakness. 

Sansa reached out to grasp his arm and he jerked uncertainly at the contact. It was his right arm, and although the stump still frightened her, she lifted it to see. Jaime's other hand came up to her shoulder, but he did not push her away. The hand had been cut away cleanly at the wrist, and Sansa hoped it had not hurt as much as it looked like it had. The skin was curled back along it, with distinct scarring where it had been sewn together. Sansa gripped his other forearm as well, and looked into his face. 

"It's useless." His voice was tinged with pain, and Sansa was not sure that he had meant to speak. She was a stupid girl with traitor's blood, but even she understood the implication of that statement. When a man was a knight his entire life, it began to define him, and even in the North she had heard that Jaime Lannister was the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Without a sword hand, without a sword, he was useless. 

"You are not useless." 

"If I was not the son of Tywin Lannister I would have been packed off to some ruined keep, as Ser Barristan was. I cannot protect anyone now." 

"You have protected me," Jaime tried and failed to cut off his laugh, but Sansa kept his gaze, "after father died, no one in King's Landing cared what happened to me. If I had married anyone else, the king would not have stopped." 

"He didn't stop." 

"He wanted to shoot me with a crossbow. Even if I lived, I would have been left to die, or saved to serve the king's whims. I would sooner have lept from a tower than been nothing but Joffrey's plaything. You took me from his grasp when no one else could." 

"You are not indebted to me for that, Sansa. You are the daughter of a Great House, highborn and beautiful. In King's Landing you should have been treated as a highborn lady, given rooms and gowns to fit your station. You should have been kept safe. If anyone save Joffrey was king, you would have been. Your brother started a war for you." 

"Robb started a war because they killed our father," Sansa had not wanted to cry, but she could feel the wetness on her face. Jaime wiped away the tears with his thumb and tugged her toward him. She ended up with her hands fisted into his shirt, and she allowed him to hold her, "if I meant that much to Robb, I would have been released days after they had you." 

Cersei would have traded her for Jaime, she knows. The queen is cruel to her, but she saw how Cersei looked at her brother. It reminded her of how Arya had looked at Jon. She would not have let anyone stop her, not even Joffrey, and if Robb had made such an offer Lord Tywin would have gone himself to fetch his son. She would have been free, and Jaime could have kept his hand. Robb marched south for Father, not for her. He would have traded any prisoner for Father. 

"War is difficult, little wife," Jaime muttered into her hair, "your brother missed you. He told me so himself." 

"Not enough to get me back when he could," Sansa had been told she could write her mother, but she dreaded getting a letter back. The last time her mother had written to her it had been about her marriage and her duty to House Stark. She would not have believed it was from her family if she had not known her mother's handwriting. She pressed at Jaime's chest and he released her so she could look up at him. "You will get better with a sword in time, but you are no less a man to me." 

"You are kind, Sansa, but I will never as good as I was." 

She smiled at that, "that is all right. No one is as good as you were, you must simply be better than everyone else." 

His laugh is true then, "only better than everyone else, yes. How simple, why didn't I think of it?" She bristled at the mockery, but Jaime traced his hand along the side of her face, sobering. "Thank you, Sansa. You are better than most." 

Sansa did not know what to say to that. Before she can form words, he turned back to the table, taking his false hand from it. He loosened the laces awkwardly, and action always come easier to Starks than words. She grasped the strange wrist and held it so Jaime could place his forearm in the opening. He blinked at her like a startled animal, "Sansa, there is no need for you to help me. I can manage on my own." 

"I do not only do what I need to do. I do what I wish to do as well. I am your wife, and I wish to help you," Jaime stareed at her still, but he arranged his arm comfortably in the leather socket and Sansa laced it tightly down the inside. She secured the laces just below his elbow, and gently tugged his sleeve down.  

Jaime snatched his doublet before she could, and slid it on with ease. Sansa was hesitant to touch his sword, but she took the empty belt and helped secure it properly.  Jaime gently picked up his sword, guided it with his metal hand, and slid it into the sheath. Then he fumbled with his good hand, arranging his clothing to better suit him.  

It is improper to stare at him as she did, but Sansa had not noticed that until he looked up at her. A grin spread over his face and he stepped toward her, caught her lips with his. Jaime's kisses are always soft and slow, but this time he adds more pressure. When she opened her mouth to gasp at the feeling, he pressed his advantage, curled his tongue to meet hers and hummed low into her mouth. After pulling away from her mouth, he kissed the top of her head, his lips gentle. 

"Thank you for your help. I am going to insure the men are tearing down the camp, I expect your maids will be in soon," in the midst of their intimate moment, she had not noticed the noise of camp waking, men shouting, the creak of leather, and the tramp of boots, "I will be back to break my fast with you." 

The tent flap does not get a chance to close behind him, Jeyne grasped it and she and Joy entered quickly. Jeyne holds the silk Sansa requested, and the very sight of it made Sansa smile. The colors reminded her of home, as did the direwolves embroidered onto it, and she took a moment to admire it as Jeyne laid it out on the bed. 

Joy collected her clothing from yesterday, pressed the dress into Jeyne's hands and said, "can you take this back to the wheelhouse? I will help Sansa dress." 

She brought the silk chemise first. It has always seemed too short and too airy for Sansa. In the North her chemises had long sleeves and were made of wool, but here they were sleeveless and light. Joy discarded her nightgown on the bed as Sansa sat so her hose can be secured. It is too light as well. In the North, hose had leather bottoms and were made of thick wool. Here it was thin and soft from top to bottom. Over this, Joy buttoned her kirtle. Unlike the white chemise, this was matched to her overgrown, a pale gold to accent the dress. Her handmaiden arranged the skirts carefully before helping her into the gown, and Sansa held the bodice closed for her as she arranged the clips. 

Joy had brought hair clips with her as well, and as she brushed Sansa's hair she asked, "would you like Jeyne to do your hair, Sansa? I know you favor Northern styles." 

She does. They reminded her that she is of Winterfell, helped her to be brave. Sansa is not of Winterfell now, she is of Casterly Rock. Her claim is no longer that of Ned Stark's daughter, but of the wife of the heir to Casterly Rock. One day, her sons will rule the Westerlands. They will be wolves as much as lions, but she thought of the lion that shared Joffrey's surcout with the Baratheon stag and decided that her children would not do the same.  

"You were born in the Westerlands, Joy? Will you use one of their styles?" 

"Yes, my Lady," Joy does as she is bid, pulling two braids on each side into a knot at the back of her head. It is a style Sansa had seen the queen wear, but when her handmaiden is done she does not look like the queen. Cersei wears a lion's mane, but Sansa's red hair is straighter and smoother. She liked the look more on herself, in truth, but she would not have Cersei know that. 

She had not thought she could be happy here. 

In Winterfell, she had prayed beside her mother in the sept. She had prayed for a betrothal to a kind, highborn man, a knight in golden armor who she would give beautiful babies with golden hair. On the road south, she had prayed for Joffrey to love her. After her father had died, she had abandoned her mother's gods. The Maiden had not protected her virtue, the Crone had not shown her how terrible Joffrey was, the Mother showed her no mercy. So she turned to the old gods, the gods of the North, as harsh as the lands they ruled. She prayed for Joffrey's death and Robb's victory. She prayed that she would get to go home. 

It seemed she was going home, but not to the home she had wished for. Sansa stood from her chair, brushed her skirts into place, and went to greet her lord husband as he entered the tent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief Sansa chapter. I got really caught up in a Dany chapter that wasn't going to exist a few days ago. Good news is we get more Sansa/Jaime chapters so I don't have to layer non-Lannister chapters.
> 
> Next should be Tywin's POV. I expect it will be fairly polarizing. Poor Sansa.
> 
> Thanks for the comments last chapter!


	18. Mother of Dragons III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without Tyrion to get in the way, their boat soon arrived in Meereen.

5/19/300

It was not that Dany did not notice the trail of whispers slowly approaching her throne, but the man in front of her was earnest in his plea. It was a simple enough problem, Rhaegal had killed three of his sheep and he wanted compensation. He was, however, taking far too long to explain this. He had already been prattling on for five minutes, and Dany had understood his purpose within the first sentence.  

The commotion had started when a young servant had darted into the back of the hall, paused by the Unsullied guard there, and spoken something too him. That man had come to the side of the throne, where more guards stood. He leaned close to them and told this man the news. That man had told Grey Worm, who had told Missandei, who had leaned close to Arianne and whispered something in her ear. The Dornish Princess' had sat forward in her chair and cast a wild look at Dany. 

"Grey Worm, see that this man is compensated for his livestock. I can hear no more petitions today, please, leave me," the Unsullied moved to see this done, and as they guided the people out, Arianne caught Dany's arm and pulled her closer. Her tokar shifted too far to be proper in her haste, and not for the first time Dany was glad of her silks. 

 _"There is a man come to see you. He says he is your nephew."_  

For a moment, the words didn't register. Once they did, Dany still did not understand, "how can I have a nephew? Viserys and Rhaegar are dead. Did Viserys have an affair in the Free Cities?" 

"A nephew?" Ser Barristan had been standing on her side of the throne, and now he came forward, "who says this?" 

"A servant told the Unsullied, who told Grey Worm, who told me," Missandei explained.  

"What else did they say?" Dany asked, "what does this boy look like?" 

"I do not know, my Queen." 

"Send for him," Arianne commanded, "we will ask him these questions." 

"He is here," Grey Worm stood at the bottom of the stairs, "my men have him waiting outside the throne room." 

"Admit him," Dany turned to the doors, Ser Barristan and Missandei falling back into their places. The knight watched Drogon warily, as the dragon had heard the commotion and lifted his head, yet her son was no threat. Even so, Quentyn shuffled closer to his sister as the doors swung wide. After a moment's pause, five people entered. Dany did not have to ask which of them claimed to be her nephew. 

Two of the men were dressed in armor. The larger one had an unfamiliar sigil, with a large sword on his back and a helm under his arm, and a beard as orange as his hair. The other was older, clean shaven with grey hair; his sigil Dany knew, the red and white griffins belonged to House Connington of the Stormlands. The third man wore robes benefiting a maester of the Citadel. The woman amongst them wore a septa's robes  and had violet eyes, had she come alone Dany might have thought Missandei mistook 'nephew' for 'niece' in High Valyrian.  

Yet it was not they Dany looked to. Walking beside the older man was a boy with silver hair and violet eyes. As he entered, she thought to see Viserys alive again, but as he came closer she could see the differences in his face. This man was lithe and tall, his eyes more blue than Viserys' had been. His face lacked the gauntness Viserys had gained from their years in exile, his smile was brilliant and his face fair. All the room had stilled, only Drogon's breath breaking the silence. Arianne found her voice before Dany, "our guards tell us you claim to be our Queen's nephew." 

"My Queen, Princess Arianne, I-" the man was staring at Dany. His companions were focused on Drogon, but he did not break her gaze. 

"Are you he who claims to be my blood?" The old man stiffened. 

"No, my Queen." 

"Then let this nephew speak." 

"Lord Connington has been good to me. He raised me," the silver haired boy spoke quickly, "but I am who you seek. I am Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell." 

"Elia's son is dead. They brought his body to Dorne," Arianne's voice was loud in the quiet chamber. "My father wept when he saw the babe's crushed head." 

"As you say, the infant's head was broken. He could not be recognized, and few infants are distinctive. It was a fake prince," the Lord Connington said. Dany could not yet tear her eyes from Aegon. She imagined that this was what her father would look like, but had never thought to see her own blood. 

Arianne was not satisfied, "then who was the babe we buried next to my aunt in Dorne?" 

"After my father died on the Trident, Lord Varys knew that his children were in danger. There was a tanner in Pisswater Bend who's wife had died birthing a son. His father sold him to Lord Varys, and he gave that boy to my lady mother and secreted me away." 

"Where is Rhaenys?"  

"My lady-" 

"My aunt would never have let her daughter die while her son was saved. She was of Dorne, and girls are worth as much as boys there. Why do you live, but your sister is dead? My uncle saw her body and her face, he would not lie to us. Rhaenys lies dead in Dorne." 

"I do not know. Perhaps he could not find a replacement, one child saved is better than both dead," Connington protested. Aegon's face was tight with emotion. He had expected a warmer reunion, it seemed, and Dany wondered at the wisdom of his advisors.  

"Do you think babes with silver hair are common in Pisswater Bend, Lord Connington?" 

"I am not Lord Varys, I cannot speak for how he found the boy." 

"Who among you can?" Arianne fell silent when Dany spoke. She still could not look away from this boy, so like her lost brother. Exile had driven Viserys mad, as mad as their father, if she believed Ser Barristan, and this boy looked as though he had never seen hardship. She wanted him to speak the truth, but Quaithe's words haunted her, _"They_ _shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world, and when they see they shall lust. For dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power."_  

"I met Aegon when he was six. I raised him, for the love I carried for his father. Ask Ser Barristan, he will know me," Connington asked.  

Dany did not have to turn her head for the knight to answer, "Jon Connington squired with Prince Rhaegar, he served as Hand of the King to your father, and was exiled by King Aerys after he lost to Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Bells. In King's Landing, it is said he drank himself to death." 

"I know his titles," she had not known what his fate had been, but she had not asked that either, "is this Jon Connington?" 

"It is, your Grace. His hair was red in his youth, but I know him." 

"If I grow a beard, it will be red. I will if it please your Grace."  

"That is unnecessary," Dany needed no further proof than her Queensguard's word, "but your word is not proof. You may believe that you serve Rhaegar's son with all your heart, but you did not know him for six years. Lord Varys may have lied. Who else can speak for him?" 

"I can," the septa had rested a hand on Aegon's shoulder as though to quiet him as Dany questioned Connington, but now she stepped between the men to stand before the throne. She had been staring at Drogon, the blackness of his scales and his great wings, but now she looked into Dany's face. Her eyes were darker, more like Dany's own.

"Who are you?" 

"Ask Ser Barristan. He will know," the septa reached up to unwind her head covering, letting the white linen fall slowly to the floor. It crumpled into a pile there, and she pulled her dark hair down over her shoulders. 

Dany waited for the knight to speak, but he did not. When she turned to him, he was gaping at the woman before them, "Ser Barristan? Do you know her?" 

"Ashara Dayne." His voice was no more than a whisper, a rasp against his lips. He took a staggering step forward and lifted his hands to his helm, letting it drop to the floor with far less care than she had ever seen from him before. He shook his head as though he did not believe his eyes, "Ashara of Starfell." 

"Ashara Dayne was a Dornishwoman. It is said that she bore a son to Lord Eddard Stark. When Stark killed her brother and took the babe, she threw herself into the sea in her grief," Arianne spoke when Ser Barristan stopped.  

"I did not have a son. I had a daughter," Ashara answered the claim calmly, "when Ned came to Starfell seeking his sister, they had a message from Lord Varys. He said that Elia's son was still alive. Elia was my greatest friend, she helped me when I became pregnant at Harrenhal. I chose to travel to Pentos and be her son's wet nurse, to see him sit the throne. My family helped fake my death, but here I am. I will speak for Aegon." 

Ser Barristan still appeared to be in some sort of shock, and thus Dany had no reason to disbelieve her claim, "how do you know this is Rhaegar's son?" 

"I had been Elia's handmaiden at court before I became pregnant. When I saw the babe I knew he was Rhaegar's son. As you say, how many infants could Lord Varys have found that so closely resembled the prince in King's Landing?" 

"At least one," Arianne reminded. 

"I will need to think on this," Dany had never expected to meet another Targaryen. Only she and Rhaego were left in the world, and her daughter would not bear children for many years. 

"I wish to ride one of your dragons," Aegon interjected. "I will prove to you that I am Rhaegar's son." 

"You do not pick a dragon. A dragon picks you," Rhaegal would listen to neither Arianne nor Dany. Only Drogon could excert any control over him. Even if the boy was not Rhaegar's son, she did not wish him dead and Dany knew her history well. Viserys had beaten it into her head, "Not all Targaryens are dragon riders.

"Of the children of Aegon son of Daenys, all became Lord of Dragonstone and all died trying to ride a dragon. His son Aerys' children all became Lord of Dragonstone as well, and all again died by dragonfire. Only the son of Aerys' third son was a dragon rider, and the father of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters." 

"I will still try," Connington looked alarmed at this. Either he had not expected Aegon to ask for a dragon, or he did not know the history of the Targaryens. Both options suggested that he was a fool. 

"No. Not today, at least," Aegon looked disappointed, but his companions looked up at Drogon's great bulk and said nothing. Ashara rested her hand on Aegon's shoulder, and when he looked at her she shook her head quickly. "I will think on this, perhaps after my marriage you may approach Rhaegal." 

"Marriage? What marriage?" Aegon demanded, "we have not even spoken of marriage yet, it is better to wed in Westeros, after we have claimed the throne." 

"I am not going to marry you," Dany drew herself up on her throne. The Shavepate had spent many days attempting to convince her to marry him instead, but she had refused. She did not know much of Meereen, but she trusted her advisors, "I am to marry a man of Meereen." 

I am your nephew! You must marry me!"Dany did not like the anger that flushed his face. It reminded her too much of her brother, of the throne and fire and screams that haunted her these last nights. 

"I _must_ do nothing. Even if I believe you to be my nephew, why would I marry you? What do you offer to my conquest?" 

"The Golden Company is sworn to me, ten thousand men who will fight for Westeros." 

"In Astapor, I freed eight thousand trained Unsullied, and nearly two thousand still in training. Those living in Yunkai and Meereen have joined my forces as well. I freed thousands of slaves from those cities as well, and those willing and able are being taught to fight. I also have my khalasar, and sellswords of my own," Drogon brought his head close, and Dany looked up into his red eyes. "and I have my dragons." 

Connington was speaking in a low voice to the princeling at his side. Dany could not catch much of it, but what she did hear was good advice. Aegon ignored him, "In Westeros, sons come before sisters." 

"In Westeros, Joffrey Baratheon sits the Iron Throne." 

"You spoke of Targaryen history, you know that Aegon came before Rhaenyra in sucession," Aegon was furious. Dany had often seen such anger in Viserys, but there had been no dragon to stand between she and him.  

"Are you certain you wish to speak of Aegon the Usurper in my halls?" Dany stood from her throne, and Drogon straightened out his neck. She padded halfway down the stairs, then lifted her hand to Drogon's muzzle. The dragon rumbled low at the touch, and Aegon's companions flinched back. All the hall had gone silent, looking to her son. In the face of a dragon, not even Aegon dared speak, "I am Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. 

"I _am_ the dragon's daughter. There is no doubt to this, I hatched dragons from my husband's pyre. I led his khalasar across the Red Waste, freed the slaves of Astapor and Yunkai, and now sit a throne. I will marry who I wish to marry, when I wish to marry. Where are your hatched eggs to show yourself a Targaryen? Only Lord Varys could speak for you, and he is neither here nor trustworthy." 

Even if the boy claimed Rhaegar for his own, he could not defeat Drogon. The black was already half again as large as his siblings, and while Rhaegal and Viserion bickered, he commanded. In less than a fortnight, Dany was to wed Hizdahr, and she did not mean to abandon Meereen. She could not. Her children were too small to conqueror Westeros as Balerion had. Drogon inhaled slowly, light racing along the underside of his throat, but he did not breathe out flames.  

"Missandei, see to our guests' comfort. They shall have rooms benefiting their station and all their needs will be seen too," Aegon would be eight-and-ten now, if he was her brother's son. Two years older than she, yet she was a queen and he a boy. Connington was not his advisor. None of hers would dare to speak to her as he spoke to Aegon, as though she were a child, "I will think on what you have said." 

Dany did not look back as she left, not until she had stepped through the doors of her council room. Ser Jorah had followed her, and Grey Worm as well, but Arianne, Quentyn, and Ser Barristan were farther away, still coming up the stairs at the far end of the hall. She took her seat and spoke to the Shavepate, "leave us. I will inform you of what is decided." 

For once, the man had the sense to do as she bid, taking his Brazen Beasts with him. Dany waited until Arianne had sat at the far end of the table, the knights and Quentyn between them, and Grey Worm's men had closed the doors. For a moment, no one spoke, sitting in silence Arianne and Dany gazed at each other, "do you believe he is Rhaegar's son?" 

"He has the look of a Targaryen, Khaleesi," Jorah offered, "silver hair and purple eyes to match your own." 

"Too much, perhaps," Arianne noted, "I must write to my father. I do not know what Elia's son looked like, but this Aegon has no Dornish coloring about him." 

"I remember that Aegon IV's children did not all look like Targaryens. Bittersteel and the Prince of Dragonflies had black hair, Baelor Breakspear was said to have dark hair and skin, and all of Rhaelle Targaryen's sons have the Baratheon look," Viserys would know more, but Viserys had tried to kill her daughter and now lay dead. Dany did not often miss her brother, but he had known Westeros as she had not. He had seen Rhaegar's son. 

"Aerys the First was the son of a Martell as well, and he had silver hair and purple eyes. Maron's third child had the Targaryen look, and his eldest was born with dark skin and silver hair," Quentyn would know better than Dany. 

"Bittersteel founded the Golden Company," Ser Jorah mused, "would they follow a Targaryen?" 

"They are sellswords. They will follow anyone who offers them gold," Arianne touched the bracelet at her wrist, "if this prince will take them home, why would they care what his bloodline is?" 

"They care," Dany could still remember Viserys' blind fury, he had overturned the table in the room they rented. She had cowered under it, praying to whatever gods would listen that he would not notice her, "my brother feasted with their captains once. He asked them to take up his cause and they laughed at him." 

"Perhaps it is Connington or the other knight they follow," Arianne suggested, "not Aegon. Did your brother offer them gold?" 

"I do not know," Dany admitted, "I was only a little girl." 

"It is too convenient. How would Lord Varys find a year-old boy with Targaryen features in King's Landing? This boy just happened to be in the hands of a man who would sell him?" 

"Ashara would not lie," Ser Barristan still looked as though he had seen a ghost. He was pale, and Quentyn had carried his helm here for him. Had he not been so important to this conversation, Dany would have allowed him to rest. "If she says this is Rhaegar's son, I believe her." 

"I do not accuse her of lying. I accuse Lord Varys of lying to her. She said she met the boy in Pentos, we have no evidence he was ever in King's Landing at all save what they say Lord Varys said. Do we believe the Spider?" 

"He tried to kill me," Dany remembered the wineseller and his death well. She had watched him die gladly, for her daughter's sake, "and he tried to kill Rhaego. I do not trust him." 

"He served Robert Baratheon, Khaleesi, but he was the one who warned me of the wineseller," Ser Jorah did not like reminding her of his betrayal, Dany knew, and so she listened. 

"You think he was protecting the Queen?" Quentyn asked, "Obeying Robert's orders to stay in his position, and using that position to protect the Targaryens?" 

"As I told you," Jorah's eyes had not strayed from hers, "he wanted you watched. Not harmed." 

"Lord Varys told me where to find you, my Queen," Ser Barristan offered, "when Joffrey Baratheon stripped me of my position, he helped me find you." 

"If this is true, why did Varys not send you to Aegon? If he is the son of Rhaegar, he has a better claim than I." 

"You had dragons. Or perhaps he hoped I would speak for Aegon, or for Connington and Ashara at least," his voice was still low, but now he met Dany's eyes instead of looking through her, "Ashara was Princess Elia's handmaiden at court until she was dishonored at Harrenhal." 

"The tourney at Harrenhal was during the False Spring, early in 281 AC,"Quentyn looked to Dany, "Elia's son was born in the last month before 282 AC. If she became pregnant during the tourney at Harrenhal, and was sent away while she could still travel, she might never have seen the babe." 

"She was sent away three months after the tourney," Ser Barristan offered. 

"Was Prince Aegon born then?" Dany asked. 

"I do not think so, my Queen. I could be wrong, it was many years ago." 

"My father would know if Elia was known to be pregnant at the tourney," Arianne said. 

"But if no one save Varys can swear to seeing the boy in King's Landing and then in Pentos, it could be that he found a child in Essos and claimed him to be the prince. Many in the Free Cities have Valeryian features, many more than in King's Landing. It would be easy to find such a child there," Jorah suggested. 

"Why would Lord Varys want me protected, then, and not taken to Aegon?" Dany asked, "he has a stronger claim, but he cannot prove he is Rhaegar's son. If he married me it would not have mattered, I am Aerys' daughter." 

"Perhaps they feared Viserys?" Arianne had not been told of Dany's relationship with her brother, but Ser Jorah knew, and it was written on his face when her brother was spoken of. 

"That Aegon did not live in the streets of the Free Cities, he is clean and well-spoken, his advisors include a septa and a maester. They could have helped Viserys and I. Why didn't they, if Lord Varys is loyal to the Targaryens?" 

"And if he is Elia's son, why did they not contact Dorne? My father would have sheltered him, provided money and perhaps even hidden him in Dorne," Arianne sounded furious, but her hand were playing with her bracelets, her necklace, her hair. 

"We must ask these questions," Dany wanted to see the boy who looked like her family, but she did not want to as well. She had had many things torn from her, she did not want to become fond of this Aegon and be forced to burn him. "I will invite them to feast with us tonight, and we can talk of this." 

"Is it dangerous to keep them in the pyramid?" Quentyn asked, looking to Grey Worm. 

"Double the guard on our rooms," Dany instructed, "and station two Unsullied inside Rhaego's room. Two you trust well. Rhaegar's son or no, my daughter will sit the Iron Throne." 

"As you command, my Queen," Grey Worm bowed slightly, "shall this one send word to the kitchens?" 

"Yes," Dany rose from her seat. She wore fine clothes, but not those she would have wished to meet her perhaps-nephew in. Dirt still clung to her skin under the silks, beaten up by Drogon's wings that morning. She needed a bath, sweet oils and new clothes. "Ser Jorah accompany me to my rooms." 

Something in her wanted to drape herself in red to match the clothes of Aegon, another wanted to feel powerful by dressing in blue. She ignored both. Daenerys Stormborn was a queen, she had rubies and blue ribbons, but she would wear a queen's gown this night. One befitting a dragon rider. Dany was lost in thought, but as they came close to her rooms she turned to her guard. 

It was Jorah she had chosen to guard Rhaego this night. She trusted her bloodriders and the Unsullied well, but her bear had been with her as she screamed and birthed Rhaego into the world. He had looked in her eyes as he named her a girl, lifted her up and called her _Rhaego_ for what remained of the khalasar to hear. He had helped her burn Drogo, and been the first to swear himself to her. He was the closest thing to a father her daughter knew. 

"What do you think of this Aegon?" 

"It does not matter what I think, Khaleesi. It only matters what Princess Arianne thinks of him." 

"Why does only Arianne matter?" Dany tilted her head to see him, but did not pause. 

"If Prince Doran is told that his nephew lives, he may raise Dorne behind him," Aegon had come begging for dragons and instead might have Dorne. Dany had not thought of that. Dorne was sworn to her, but she had seen many betrayals. She herself had taken Astapor with one, with fire and spears. 

"You would advise me to marry him? To set aside Meereen and leave my freedmen? I do not know if he is Targaryen, much less Rhaegar's son," she wanted to believe, but she had wanted many things that had not come to pass. 

 _mother of dragons, slayer of lies_  

"It does not matter if he is the son of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell, Khaleesi. Only if the princess thinks he is," Jorah had given good counsel, but Dany was wary. She trusted Arianne, if only for her claim of Viserion. She had missed not having an equal; the fiery Dornish princess had bent the knee, but she was clever and adventurous. They has spent many hours talking, their dragons curled beside them, a sweet Dornish tea in hand. In those times they had spoken of their childhoods, shared laughter and sweet kisses. She did not want to think that Arianne would betray her. 

 _mother of dragons, daughter of death_  

When Dany was cleaned and dressed, all in white, rubies hung about her neck and blue ribbons in her briads, she had Irri secure her bells in her hair. There were many now, for the Undying, for Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen. She chimed with every step, a reminder of the khal she had burned, of the children that came from his pyre. Drogo had made a queen of her, but she had been sold to him all the same. Aegon would not purchase her with sellswords and dragon blood.  

 _mother of_ _dragons_ _, bride of fire_  

She was a conqueror, not a maiden to be sold for a crown.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aegon and Dany's plots meet. I really want to do a Vale chapter, but it's honestly rather boring up there right now. I'm trying to keep non-Lannister chapters plot-focused. 
> 
> We're going to end up with a few Meereen fluff chapters, though. Dany's going to have a lot going on before our five year break.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments!


	19. The Old Lion IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family dinner with the Lannisters.

6/19/300

The private dining room in the upper floors of the Red Keep brought back many memories. He had been a cupbearer in King Aegon V's court, a trusted friend of the prince during Jaehaerys II's rule, and the Hand of the King once Aerys II took the throne. He had watched Rhaegar go from a babe in his mother's arms to a man grown, had followed Rhaella's many lost pregnancies, and had seen Viserys as a toddler, all in this room. 

Tywin was no longer a guest of the king, an outsider privileged to see into the private lives of the royal family. This was his family, Cersei fawning over her son, Joffrey whinging at the slightest provocation, and Margaery Tyrell the most composed of all of them, tucked into her chair in hopes of being overlooked. Tywin had seated himself at the head of the table, torn between delight that Tyrion was not present to drink himself senseless, and discontent that Jaime was missing as well. It had taken him seventeen years to get his heir back; he had not intended to send him away so soon. 

Although he rarely overate, Tywin found himself taking a second portion of the boar ribs while he entertained conversation with the queen. The girl is all of seventeen, three years older than her husband and far sweeter. Tywin had never wanted a tame king, but of late he thought he would sooner his father be king than his grandson. At least Tytos would listen to reason or allow himself to be sidestepped, Joffrey seemed determined to put himself in the center of everything and listen to no one. 

"When is the prince due?" 

"In five months, Lord Tywin," she smiled at him, glowing as she lay a hand over her stomach, "I pray to the gods daily for a son with his father's eyes." 

"Ah, grandfather, have I told you?" Joffrey had been gossiping with his mother, but the boy turned with a prideful grin. "I have chosen a name for my son. He will be called Gerold, after the Lannister kings of old." 

"It is a fine name," Cersei cooed over the boy, but the name gives Tywin pause. 

"Gerold is a Westerlands name, I had thought you meant to name the boy after your father's house. Steffon, perhaps," Tywin had heard enough rumors about his elder children for a lifetime, he needed no reason for the smallfolk to whisper more.  

"Steffon is hardly a name for a king," Joffrey sneered, "my father was a stupid, vicious man. He did not deserve to be a king, and he does not deserve for my son to carry his father's name." 

It had been many years since Tywin had loved Steffon as a brother, yet he still felt the insult. Robert had been a drunkard, a glutton, and a whoremonger, but he had done more to deserve the throne than the boy that was his heir. Robert fought and won a battle against the Targaryens, while his son found it difficult to lift a sword. He had dueled Martyn yesterday, a boy of fourteen and Tywin's own squire; when Martyn had landed a particularly hard blow with their wooden training swords he had gone crying to his mother. The boy had been screaming for his cousin's head, and afterwards none of the men would train him without Tywin himself at hand. 

"What if we have a daughter, my King?" Margaery tried to prevent an argument, Tywin saw, but Joffrey turned on her just as quickly as he had snapped at his grandfather. 

"You will not have a daughter. My own mother gave my father a son before she had a daughter, you will do the same," the queen drew back at her husband's sudden anger. In her place Tywin can see another queen, "you are not permitted to have a daughter until you give me a son." 

"I-I cannot control the sex of our babe." 

"Joffrey, daughters are the jewels of their houses," Cersei gently touched her son's arm, simpering at him while fixing Margaery with a dark look. "Margaery will give you many sons, but there is something special about daughters. Myrcella is a sweet girl." 

"Only in that she was like you, mother," Joffrey did not smile for his queen, but for Cersei. Not for the first time, Tywin wished he had allowed him to be fostered at Winterfell. Ned Stark was many things, but among them an honorable man. "Myrcella was defiant and prideful, like father." 

"Yet it is Myrcella who has renewed the alliance with Dorne," Tywin had noticed that there were fewer Baratheon banners in the Keep, of late, but he had assumed it was Cersei's intention, not Joffrey's, "one son is a heir, the second a knight, but it is good to have many daughters to secure your kingdom." 

"Secure my kingdom?" Joffrey huffed out a laugh, "Tell me, grandfather, did it secure you the kingdom when you sold my mother to Robert Baratheon? Did it bring House Lannister pride to see their daughter battered and turned aside for whores?" 

Tywin bristled at that, but he kept his temper in check, "Cersei wanted to marry Robert, to be his queen. When I came with the news her first thoughts were of a wedding gown, not of fleeing her betrothed." 

Cersei flushed, but Joffrey brushed off this comment, "I want a male heir. I will not have Tommen inherit my throne!" 

"Perhaps your mother forgot to teach you the line of succession, but daughters come before uncles. Cersei would inherit the Rock before Kevan, if it came to that," it would not. Jaime knew what would happen if the Stark girl did not produce a heir. 

"I am not the one misinformed. In the lines of lesser houses, daughters come before uncles, but any male kin will always sit the Iron Throne before a woman," he looked at Margaery as though she were one of his father's whores rather than his queen carrying his child, "I have no use for a daughter." 

"We are not Targaryens, Joffrey," Cersei reminded him, "in House Lannister, your daughter will inherit before Tommen." 

"The king is a Baratheon, but nevertheless, you are correct, Cersei," Tywin would have those banners replaced tomorrow, stags would line the halls again, least the lions be replaced by roses or wolves, "If Queen Margaery is carrying a daughter, it matters little. The king is still young, he will have many children, and any sons will inherit before his daughters. Lord Tully just married, his heir would be a good match for a daughter, or perhaps young Lord Arryn himself. Lord Baelish would be pleased to arrange such a match." 

"I would send her to the North, as far away from King's Landing as possible," Joffrey huffed, but his mother's quiet counsel had said prevented another direct challenge.  

"That would be a foolish decision. You have secured the loyalty of the North with Sansa Stark's marriage to Jaime, Dorne's loyalty with Myrcella, the Reach with your marriage, and Tommen will rule the Stormlands. You only need secure the Riverlands and Vale." 

"Both are sworn to me!" Joffrey preened. 

"They could still revolt, Joffrey, we must strengthen our alliances," Cersei looked uncertain, but Joffrey smiled reassuringly at her. 

"If they do, we'll crush them." 

"You could crush the Riverlands, but you would never get past the Bloody Gate," Lysa Tully knew that, or she would never have retreated into her lands. Baelish had secured the Vale for now, but he could not be relied on forever. Tywin had no intention of waging a futile war for the foolish, cruel boy-king, Lannister or no. 

"What would you know about invading the Vale?" Joffrey stood quickly, Cersei at his heels. 

"Joffrey, your grandfather won the war in your name." 

"He may have, but he certainly did not earn the victory," Cersei was staring at her father, but Joffrey did not seem to notice his mother's alarm, "Uncle Renly was assassinated by Stannis, Uncle Jaime escaped without his help, he didn't tell the Ironborn to capture Winterfell, and if not for the Tyrells we all would have died at Blackwater. I will not stand here and hear that I cannot keep my own kingdom when he did nothing for me. My father won the throne and my good father kept it." 

Joffrey turned and stormed out of the room, leaving his plate half full. Cersei scrambled after him, only to pause at the door. Although she had kept most of Tywin's fury from reaching Joffrey, she knew that he had not been pleased at the death of Jaime's son, and Joffrey's continued refusal to listen did not help his patience, "he does not know what he is saying. He is angry." 

"Because his wife cannot control the sex of his child. After all your weeping that Robert treated you poorly, you let your son do the same to his wife," Tywin showed none of the fury he felt. Tommen would have made a far better king than this fool. Every day he saw less of Robert's brashness in him, and more of Aerys' cruelty. The queen was silent and still in her chair, pressed as far back as she could get, her hands curled over her stomach. Cersei clutched her skirts, looking more like a scared house cat than a lion before she turned on her heels and followed her son. 

They sat in silence for a moment. Margaery too scared to move and Tywin, for the first time, seriously considering leaving the mess Cersei had created, and letting the Baratheons ruin themselves. The Lannisters could hardly be blamed for this, Robert had drank so much he had fallen from his horse and been gored, Stannis was a kinslayer, and Renly a tradior to the crown, be that his nephew or his older brother. It could hardly be blamed on the drunkard's queen or a boy king's mother that he lost his throne. 

"They say you slew the Tarbecks and the Reynes when you were yet a boy," the queen looked at him with wide, dark eyes. Tywin turned to look at her. The girl was pretty, nothing compared to Joanna's beauty, yet something about her unsettled him.  

"I suggest you have your court musicians play _The Rains_ _of Castamere_ , Queen Margaery." 

"I have heard it. They say that when they retreated to the mines, you collapsed the entrances and flooded them, drowning those inside," the little queen leaned toward him, all dressed in green, a low neckline and light skirts, a golden crown and determination on her face. The image was haunting. 

"Then they told you the truth." 

"I wish to ask something of you, Lord Tywin," the Tyrell drew herself back, her chin tilting up, and her gaze met his. She had been a wilting flower before Joffrey, but now he saw the Tyrell in her, "as the queen, but moreso, as the mother of your great-grandchild." 

"You want me to send you away," her grandmother had asked as much. Months ago, he had thought it was too much. Joffrey's rages would die down as he grew older. Now he was not as certain. Aerys' madness only grew as he aged. 

"I will not lie, I would like to live, but that is not what I ask," Margaery's fingers touched the swell of her belly, but her eyes did not falter from his, "save my child. It is your kin, and they say you love your family. If I cannot live, I would have it survive." 

Now he knew. Another time, another queen, in this very room. Her hair had been lighter, her eyes purple and not brown, dressed in crimson rather than green. _Bring me back my son._  She had caught his arm as he left for Duskendale, Viserys rounding her belly. She had tried and failed to keep Rhaegar in King's Landing, resorted to using the last route she had. _Bring him back to me._  He had often suspected that Viserys only survived pregnancy because Aerys had not been there to brutalize Rhaella.  

The little queen stood, paused behind her chair, and curtseyed ever so slightly, "Lord Tywin," and then she was on her way. Her brother followed close behind, ever loyal. Tywin took another bite of the boar. Perhaps they had made a mistake when they cast Aerys from the throne. They had removed one mad Targaryen king and put another on the throne. Neither Steffon nor Robert had any of the Targaryen madness, nor had Rohanne or Joanna, but it seemed when one Targaryen line met another, it returned. It would have been better if the Seven Kingdoms ruled themselves again, if Jaime and his sons had been Kings of the Rock. 

He made his way back to the Tower of the Hand slowly, lost in thought as he moved through the halls. If he was wanted a pliable king, he should have acted before Joffrey married. Margaery's babe would be Joffrey's heir now, and if his father was removed from his position the Tyrells would soon have taken over King's Landing. He had known that Robert would make a pathetic king, but had thought that Cersei would be capable of raising a proper heir. That was why he had opposed Joffrey's fostering on Dragonstone or in Winterfell. 

He should have left the Arryn boy to Stannis and encouraged Robert's fostering plans for his heir. Cersei had assured him the boy did not take after his drunkard father, she had not mentioned that he was a greater fool than any of the three Baratheon brothers.  

Tywin had intended to finish several letters to send on the morrow, but when he entered his solar he found that his family night was not yet over. Cersei sat perched in a chair, more drunk than she had been at dinner, wine glass still in hand. He had spent his patience on Joffrey tonight, "have you come to apologize for your son?" 

"He will apologize himself, on the morrow," Cersei replied, "I spoke to him about wars and the duty of a king." 

She should have done that a decade ago, "then why have you intruded in my tower?" 

Cersei stood while he took the seat at his desk. She staggered slightly. He had rarely seen her this drunk in public, "I am going to Casterly Rock." 

Tywin sat back, "you were repeatedly told to go with Jaime, but you refused. You said that you are the Queen Mother, and your place is with your son. You are his regent, and so you refused to marry or return home. Now you wish to intrude on Jaime's wife? I do not think your presence will make her more fertile." 

"Yes, and the sooner she has a babe, the sooner Jaime can return," she mocked, staggering toward him. She gripped his desk with one hand and leaned on it heavily, "I want to see Tommen on his nameday." 

Tywin didn't know if he should be angry that she was drunk and indecisive or relieved that he would have a chance to teach Joffrey without his mother hanging over them. More men would be required to travel with her, tearing his army further apart. Tyrion would attempt to return with her, and any work Jaime had done with Tommen would be ruined. It may even delay Jaime's heir. 

Yet it would be worth it to turn Joffrey into a competent king. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to have a Dany chapter next, then two Sansa/Jaime focused chapters. We have a Winterfell chapter coming up too.
> 
> Cersei's trip to the Rock is going to feature a nod to the show.
> 
> Please excuse any typos, it's late and I'm tired and lacking a beta.


	20. Kingmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne is not sure if she will ever know if Aegon is the son of Elia, but she is also not sure that it matters.

5/20/300

She woke to heat against her back, the blankets uncomfortable even in the cool of the morning. It took a moment to recall how she had fallen asleep here, intertwined with the silver queen on a bed of blankets draped between their dragons' sides. Viserion lay across from her, her golden eyes watching as they slept. That meant it was Drogon behind her. The great black still made her nervous, as Viserion should but did not, and she untangled herself from Daenerys carefully, wary of the red eyes that lingered on her.  

Arianne prefered men, it was true, but no one with their wits would turn down the glorious little dragon queen if she requested a bedfellow. Arianne looked back as she reached the entrance to the terrace, to where Daenerys' silver hair was spread across the sleeping silks that covered only her lower half, her hand pressed to Drogon's black scales, dozing in the soft light of dawn. She summoned the Dothraki handmaiden, sent her to fetch clothes from her rooms, and sent one of the half-dozen Unsullied outside to speak with the kitchen maids. 

Then she stole the queen's robe from the floor and went back to the dragons. Viserion watched as she looked over the edge of the brick wall, to the city far below. Meereen was just waking now, and Arianne was content to observe the sleepy increase of movement for many minutes. The table where Daenerys broke her fast was behind Drogon, and she had no wish to step over his tail to reach it. She was still gathering her courage when the black dragon rumbled low in his belly and the blankets moved. 

Daenerys was lovely in the light of dawn, her hair wild from sleeping on dragon scales, her violet eyes pale in the soft light, her skin flawless and glowing. The elder handmaiden came to her as she stirred, silks in hand, and once she had robed the queen she collected their bedding. With Daenerys gone, the dragons took flight; Arianne knew their roars could be heard throughout the city. She stood staring, revealing in the feel of Viserion's presence once she took flight. 

"Will you break your fast with me?" Daenerys was a girl of sixteen, but she acted more a queen than Arianne's own father.  

"No, I mean to speak to this Aegon." 

"After last night, I am surprised he remains in the city," the dinner had gone poorly, that was true, but the boy would be a fool to leave, even if he was not Elia's son. The Golden Company could not conquer the Seven Kingdoms alone. 

"You called him a baseborn Blackfyre." 

"Do you believe he is Elia's son?" Her voice was sharp, she did not turn from plucking a peach from the table, but her shoulders tightened. A queen she was, but she would make a poor diplomat. Arianne thought of Astapor and the army of Unsullied. Perhaps she did not need to be such. 

"When you sat me in your hall beside your throne, you said it was because I was a dragon rider, but moreso because I did not fear you. Because I would speak truth when others cowered before you. Do you wish me to tell pretty lies?" 

"No," Daenerys sat heavily in a chair, her hair wild over her shoulders, frizzy from her braids. When she looked up her eyes were bright, "do not lie to me. I wish with all my heart that this boy is my family, my brother's son, but I was warned many times of those who would tell me lies." 

"Who warned you?" 

"Foremost, a woman in Qarth, called Quaithe of the Shadow. Beware of all, she said, for _t_ _hey shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world, and when they see they shall lust._ " 

"I would warn you of the same, but Aegon cannot take your dragons. As you said, even if he is Elia's son, he may not be a dragon rider. Why is a woman who told you truth the foremost of those who have warned you?" 

"She is a sorcerer, of sorts, and said other things. She said there was truth in Asshai.” 

"Perhaps there is, there are many strange things in the Shadow, but there is truth in Westeros as well, and in Meereen. Do you mean to go to Asshai?" 

"No." 

"If you will not follow her advice, why do you worry over it? What did she say that makes you fear Aegon? 

"She told me not to trust the mummer's dragon," Daenerys busied herself with her plate, and something about her posture suggested that Arianne not press. Instead, she stole one of the queen's prized peaches and bit into it. 

"I wish to speak with my father, after your wedding." 

"You sent a raven?" 

"I did," Doran had sent her and her companions with eight ravens, and she had sent one the night she rode Viserion the first time, "yet he has no way to return my message. I wish to go to him." 

"Go to him?" 

"I will fly west to Volantis and to Lys. From there I can land on Sunspear and speak with my father. He must know that you mean to rule Meereen until your dragons have grown. He will be able to prepare a fleet and the armies of Dorne. Once you land in Sunspear we must move quickly to take the Reach and Westerlands, before Joffrey can react with his armies." 

The Dragon Queen was silent, then, "you speak as though it is very close." 

"Not to ships, but I know how quickly Viserion can fly over the city, and I know how large the city is. It will not be so long to a dragon," she did not know what she would tell him about Aegon. He must be told that his beloved sister's son may be alive, but how to tell him the boy was likely false?  

"When do you mean to leave?" The door opened to admit the Dothraki handmaiden, carrying Dornish silks. The Meereenese favored the tokar, but she would show Aegon clothes from his homeland. The sheer silks hid little enough, and while she did not think they would impress Connington or his septa, they might catch the boy's eye. 

"After your wedding," Arianne had made the match and preparations herself, she could not miss the ceremony.

"Viserion is still small," she was not called the Mother of Dragons for nothing, her eyes went to the white wings far above them, "care must be taken that she is not harmed."

The Dothraki girl was helping her with the Dornish dress, but Arianne stilled to look the queen in her face, "I would have myself harmed before her."

She left Daenerys to break her fast on the grassy terrace and returned to her own rooms, on the thirtieth floor of the great pyramid. Her supposed cousin and his companions had been given rooms near hers, the fake septa on her side of the hall and the men on the other. 

As she approached Aegon's rooms, the door opened for Ser Barristan to exit. The knight saw her a moment after she saw him, the smile fell from his face, his hand went to his sword, and while Arianne did not think Daenerys' Queensguard would harm her, she called out nonetheless, "Ser Connington, I mean to speak to Aegon." 

It was difficult to explain Barristan's presence in Aegon's rooms in the early hours of the morning, but it would be harder to explain the murder of the heir to Dorne. Connington did not look pleased, but while white knight continued past her to the stairs, she was admitted to Aegon's rooms. Inside, his other three companions were seated together, two chairs empty. 

"I hoped to that Aegon might join me to break our fast," Aegon's smile was honest, but none of his advisers, even the supposed Dornishwoman, shared the sentiment. The septa and maester looked to each other, while the younger knight gripped his sword hilt.

"We meant to spend the morning here. 

"You have spent many years together, Ser Connington. Surely you can spare him a few hours after traveling all the way to Meereen." 

"I would be honored to join you, princess," Arianne accepted the arm he offered and returned his smile, although hers was less open than sultry, and brought a flush to his face. Connington was a fool if he had not brought the boy enough women to teach him not to fall for every pretty smile. The boy meant to wed the wife of a khal, his aunt could not be expected to be, or to want, a blushing maiden on their wedding night. 

She led him to the gardens of the pyramid, found a seat under the trees and served herself some of the small green figs her handmaiden had set out. Aegon poured some of the sweetened wine, eyeing it curiously as he selected some of the less foreign things before them. Arianne had eaten a great many strange things since coming here; the nobles of Meereen thought dog to be a delicacy, Daenerys ate the horseflesh the Dothraki loved, and she had eaten honeyed locusts so many times they now seemed sweet. 

"I would apologize for last night's dinner, but not on behalf of our Queen," Arianne began, when he stared at the hardened duck eggs suspiciously. 

"I admit, I was expecting a warmer welcome," Aegon took some of the honeyed sausage instead of the duck eggs, and Arianne decided it would be kinder to not tell him what they were made of. "I was raised with tales of marrying Daenerys Targaryen." 

"That is the problem," Aegon had been the picture of chivalry, had he been in Westeros he would long since have been a knight, but his aunt was no fair maiden waiting to be saved, "you say Illyario Mopatis funded your exile, that Lord Varys smuggled you out of the Red Keep, but where is the evidence that they love the Targaryens? Illyrio is a wealthy and powerful magister in Pentos, but he allowed Daenerys to be sold to the Dothraki. If he wished to, he could have taken her from Viserys and had her brought to you. He could have sheltered she and her brother rather than leaving them to beg on the streets of the Free Cities. 

"If you are the son of Elia Martell, then Viserys was your heir. Instead of treating him as such, your benefactors used him as a distraction for Robert Baratheon's assassins. Can you not see why she distrusts you?" 

"I had not thought of it like that," Aegon admitted, "I have been Aegon Targaryen, son of Prine Rhaegar and Elia Martell, my entire life. I do not know who else I could be. Even if I am not who I think I am, how am I to find out? If Lord Varys and Illyrio have lied to me my entire life, for profit or some other gain, why would they stop now?" 

Arianne drank from her own wine. It tasted of peaches, and she knew it was Daenerys' favorite. The maids had thought she dined with a different Targaryen, "what do you know of Daenerys Targaryen?" 

"She is the youngest daughter of King Aerys II and his sister-wife Rhaella. She was born on Dragonstone nearly nine months after the Sack of King's Landing and she grew up in the Free Cities. Magister Illyrio said that she was frightened of her brother when she lived in Pentos. She wed Khal Drogo of the Dothraki, hatched dragons on his pyre, and bore him a daughter after his death. Part of his khalasar stayed with her, and she led them to Qarthe and Astapor, where she freed the Unsullied from their masters. She was moved by the horrors the slaves endured, and so marched on Yunkai and Meereen to save them." 

Arianne swallowed the duck egg she had been eating and drank from her wine. She leaned back in her chair and studied the Valyrian boy who sat across from her, "what are the names of her dragons?" 

"I... do not know." 

"Did she love Khal Drogo?" 

"Not according to Illyrio. Viserys married her to the khal in exchange for his army. He was meant to bring them to us, but died before he could." 

"You do not know Daenerys," he began to protest, but she was not finished, "I do not know Daenerys, and I have been with her four months and you a day." 

"Are you suggesting I court her?" 

"I am suggesting that if you wish to ally with Daenerys, you must learn why she rules as she does." 

"She hates me," it could have been bitter, but Aegon said it as though it were a fact. Whoever he was, he had been raised as Rhaegar and Elia's son. Arianne though of the silver queen's decision to replace the disemboweled slave children with great masters; this boy would not have done that. Then she thought of the slaves' love for the queen who freed them,  _Mhysa_ , they called her, Mother, Breaker of Chains. She thought of Missandei, and she knew Aegon would not have been a breaker of chains.

"She does not trust you. She had been betrayed many times, has lost her husband to betrayal, her dragons were stolen, and she fears for her daughter's life. Daenerys has sworn to see her daughter Rhaego sit the Iron Throne." 

"That is fine, good even. Her daughter can marry our son if she desires it." 

"I do not think you understand. She wishes Rhaego to _rule_ , not to be the consort of a king." 

"Sometimes it is necessary to compromise to win." 

"One day, her dragons will be large enough to create a new Field of Fire, to burn the Red Keep and Winterfell and the Eyrie. She will be Aegon the Conqueror come again with her children, if she wishes to see her daughter rule then rule she shall." 

"I am Elia Martell's son, will Dorne turn it's back on me?" All of the anger he had yesterday was gone, replaced by calm curiosity and resignation. He refilled his wine, sipping lightly at it. "They fought dragons once, they can again." 

"Dorne protected itself, we did not seek the Iron Throne." 

"You are my cousin, in my eyes if not yours," his eyes were lighter than Daenerys', with more blue in them, but they held none of her wariness. "What would you advise, if I wish to... ally, with Daenerys?" 

"Sit in her throne room while she hears petitions, hear her words and see if you would have done the same. Ask to dine with her, she wishes to know if you are her lost nephew, she will not refuse you. Tell her about your life and she will tell you about her own. Daenerys is proud and fierce, yes, but she is no butcher queen. If you ask her, she will tell you why she loved her khal, how she hatched her dragons, how she came to be called the Breaker of Chains." 

"I did ask," he reminded her. 

"You came to her city and demanded she marry you. She feasted you and your companions told her that you expect to sit the Iron Throne within a year. What you asked is how she plans to help you do so. Do not tell her what you plan to do. Do not even ask her what she plans. If you do not know why she acts as she does, you do not know if it is a wise decision," Arianne sounded too much like her father for her own liking, but Aegon considered her words.  

"My advisors will not like this." 

"If you are the son of Elia Martell, then you are a prince. They are knights at best, they do not command you," he was trained to be a king, this Aegon, but he did not have Daenerys' fire or her soft heart. They would make a good pair, ruling together, but Arianne did not think they could love each other. She might marry him for duty, as she married Hizdahr; he might marry her for power, as he had come to her for.

"If you are indeed a dragon, show your strength." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arianne's first chapter. I'm not sure I'm sold on the chapter title (I considered 'A Dornish Dragon'). I'm starting to explore Sansa's relationships at the Rock, and I feel a bit bad for developing Meereen off screen. I feel a little weird not giving a lot of details in this chapter, but then I feel boring giving too many in Sansa's, so...
> 
> Sansa and Jaime arrive at Deep Den soon, Catelyn reaches Winterfell, and we have a short fluffy Dany chapter soon too. I need to fit a Tywin POV in there as well, just not sure on it's exact placement.
> 
> Good news! I finished a few more arc outlines, including Jon's, Sansa's, and most of Jaime's.
> 
> Thanks for the comments! They make me want to put out new chapters.


	21. The Kingslayer III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jaime had been Lord Commander, he would have sent Ser Lyle Crakehall with Tommen, but he is not.

5/13/300

Although it had taken several days, Jaime had finally managed to loop his mare's reins over his false hand well enough so they would not fall. He was an experienced horseman and had no need to pull at her mouth to direct her, but he did not want them to tangle around the false hand in such a way that he would be dragged along if she bolted and he fell.  

That had been an auspicious start to the morning. When he announced this minor victory to Tyrion, he had begun planning a break-away strap that would better serve Jaime's purpose. His brother was clever, and they had spent most of the morning speaking of leather and metal that would best suit the golden false hand. Jaime had been tempted to have the men eat in their saddles again, as he wanted to reach Deep Den, but instead he summoned Ser Patrek to have Tommen's horse saddled during their stop. 

It was only when they were preparing to continue on that the commotion began. He had just mounted his white mare when a shriek came from the direction of the wheelhouse, followed by a man's raised voice. Tyrion had paused as well, and Jaime saw his own concern mirrored in his eyes, "prepare the column to leave, I'll find out what happened." 

He wheeled his mare about, the men parting before her. As he came near the wheelhouse, those who had stopped to watch drew back quickly, hoping to return to their duties before Jaime noticed their gawking. He found Sansa there, knelt in front of a crying Tommen, her golden silks in the dirt, and his hands clasped in hers. Had Jaime not picked Tommen's grey mare himself, he would have been concerned that his wife's head was so close to her hooves. 

Ser Patrek stood over them, glowering and holding the mare's reins, speaking more sharply than was proper to Lady Lannister. Ser Daven stood closer to the door of the wheelhouse, but Joy was just behind Sansa, although her own dress was clean, returning the knight's dour look, "Stand aside, Lady Sansa. Your husband has ordered that the prince ride his mare. Allow me to do my duty."  
 

The knight reached for Tommen's shoulder, as gentle as any man in heavy armor could be, but the boy cried out and hid himself behind Sansa, clutching her skirts as Joy helped her to her feet, "Ser Patrek, certainly you can see that the prince is in pain. It has only been three days since was raw from the saddle. If you explained this to my lord husband, surely he would not force his nephew to ride." 

"I have been told once that I am to follow my orders exactly, I do not mean to be told again. Step aside and allow me to aid the prince," even at this distance, Jaime could see that his little wife was shaking. He suspected that if Ser Patrek had ordered her to ride the mare, she would have done so, bruises and all, simply to avoid the confrontation. Yet it was Tommen who was threatened, not her, thus she clasped her shaking hands in front of her and tilted her chin a little higher. Red hair and blue eyes notwithstanding, she looked as her father had in King's Landing. 

"You are a knight of the Kingsguard, meant to _guard_ the king and his family. Not to command them," Daven had noticed his presence, was watching him instead of Sansa, and Jaime could recall the conversation he had had with Tyrion the morning after Ser Patrek decided to drink with the men in front of Tommen's tent instead of guarding the prince himself during dinner. _He_ _may look like you, but he hasn't half your loyalty_.  

He had meant to see how Sansa dealt with the knight, but the thought gave him pause. How many times had Cersei said Joffrey looked like him? Perhaps his little wife was braver than she had let on. Jaime nudged his mare forward, close enough to be heard without raising his voice, "Ser Patrek, you are frightening my lady wife." 

The knight startled, looked back at Sansa to gauge her reaction, and took a step back, nearly into the grey's neck, "my pardon, my Lady. I meant you no harm." 

It might have been Sansa's trembling hands that gave away her fear, but Jaime suspected the knight had heard of Joffrey's treatment of her. Even Tyrion was careful to speak calmly and move slowly around her of late, and Sansa could likely overpower him if she tried. Still, Ser Patrek looked honestly contrite, and Sansa managed a smile, "you did nothing to me, Ser, do not fear. My only concern is for the prince." 

"Tommen, do you not want to ride your horse?" The boy peered around his wife's skirts, and Jaime wondered where he had learnt to hide behind a woman. Cersei never would have allowed such a thing. Had she been in Sansa's place she would have had Tommen mounted on the horse and told him to stop his blubbering, as she had on the trip to Winterfell. After that first day, Robert had not even mentioned the children riding. 

"It hurts," he protested. 

"His legs still hurt, Cousin Jaime," had Joy been a man she would have been sent to the Citadel, but she was a girl and could only serve as a handmaiden who followed a maester's commands, "they have not finished healing." It did not escape Jaime's notice that Jeyne Poole was nowhere to be seen. 

"Then he will ride in the wheelhouse again. Sansa, could you help the prince?" She caught Tommen's hand in her own and hurried away, Joy coming up behind her. Whatever she said to Ser Daven was lost in the noise of camp, but the handmaiden frowned at Ser Patrek as she closed the door firmly behind her lady. Joy had as sharp a temper as Cersei, if more care of when to use it. Sansa had slept ill these last nights, and this would not make it better.  

"Ser Patrek, when I told you to saddle Tommen's horse, it was with the understanding that you would not force the prince to do anything," he had not been a proponent of his father sending a green Kingsguard with Tommen simply because he was a Lannister of Lannisport, but he had at least expected him to treat Tommen as the prince he was and not a lord's unruly child. No one had told him that he would be training the young knight in the ways of the Kingsguard. 

"Your brother told me that I was to follow orders to the letter. He said that guarding the prince meant standing beside him, not guarding his tent," the knight protested, "I was only following orders." 

"Are you saying Prince Tommen told you to drink with men outside his tent instead of guarding him?" Was his father raising men to the Kingsguard because they were loyal to the Lannisters now, rather than selecting men who had the simplest of senses? 

"No, my Lord, but I thought that 'guard the prince' meant his tent and possessions as well." 

"I would sooner have him safe and his tent afire. Next time my order conflicts with the prince's desires, use your head. If Tommen wishes to not ride his horse, guard him in the wheelhouse. If he wishes to ride ahead to Casterly Rock, bring him to me. You should be concerned with his safety over everything else." 

"Yes, my Lord," Jaime suspected that the knight only wanted this conversation to be over, but at least he seemed to understand.  

"Good. One more thing: the next time my wife gives you a command that conflicts with your orders, you are to come directly to me. Do not argue with her unless her command would endanger Tommen, and even then, bring the boy to me," Jaime had visited a great many nobles houses as Aerys' Kingsguard, and he had never been rude to with families within save on a direct order. "Sansa will be the Lady of Casterly Rock, she is very important to myself and to my father." 

He was at least intelligent enough to understand the threat. Jaime turned his mare back to the head of the column, leaving him to his duties. At least Tyrion would agree that the man was an idiot. For all of Jaime's love for Cersei, he had missed the Rock, and this interruption could have been avoided if the knight had the sense of a slug.  

Tyrion was mounted near the front of the men, his sellsword at his side, conversing with one of the senior men. As Jaime neared, he turned his bay to allow him near and nodded down at the man, "one of the packhorses has gone lame. He thinks he can keep up with our pace, but not while weighed down." 

"Tommen is not riding his grey today, use her as a packhorse. We're only five days from Deep Den, we can trade her for another horse there," Tyrion nodded, looking back to the man. 

"The letter Pod delivered did mention that we would be swapping several horses, she can be among them. Is there anything else?" 

"No, m'lord. I will ready the grey," he vanished quickly into the crowd, and Tyrion glanced at him. 

"What happened to Tommen?" 

"Ser Patrek decided that he should force Tommen to ride, but the boy's legs still hurt and Sansa intervened to prevent him from being thrown on the mare." 

Tyrion smirked at him, "I told you that she was braver than you thought." 

"Sansa is kind and thoughtful. She did not want Tommen hurt." 

"You think of bravery as eagerness for battle, but there is more than that. It is brave of her to prevent a man twice her size from doing anything." 

"He would not have touched her. I would send his head back to father with a request for a replacement," or perhaps have sent the knight himself back. Lord Tywin would not have been pleased with anyone who struck a member of House Lannister, least of all a Kingsguard he had picked for his loyalty to said house. 

"Does she know that?" 

Jaime had no answer to that, but he did have a newly formed headache from all of this, "she should. Why are we discussing my wife, Tyrion? Are you not eager to meet yours?"

"She is not my wife yet," his brother was unamused, "and I somehow doubt she will think me a suitable husband. If father wanted me to marry, he should have given me the Stark girl and let you have the Lannister if he cared about her opinion."

"You refused Sansa."

"And you refused Ser Patrek's company, but here we are," Jaime sighed heavily at the reminder, although he had not truly expected such a ploy to work on Tyrion. If the knight managed to make it through the day without making more of a fool of himself, Jaime would have him ride near Ser Daven tomorrow. His cousin was no Kingsguard, but he would serve as a temper on most of Ser Patrek's foolishness.  

Some part of him wanted to tell Sansa he would protect her, but he had said that before. Jaime doubted it would serve any purpose to renew a broken promise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is a Sansa chapter. I think Meereen after that, then another Sansa?
> 
> Someone mentioned they'd be interested in seeing into the Riverlands, and since I can't do the Vale (chapter is already planned further along in the timeline) or non-KL Baratheons (Davos is a little...preoccupied, at the moment), does anyone else want a Riverlands POV? If it's just information you want and not politics, we have some of that in Cat's next chapter.


	22. Lady Lannister V

5/15/300

"Where did he come from?" The wheelhouse came to a stuttering halt, creaking as it stilled. Outside the window, Sansa could see Ser Daven's cremello stallion as the knight drew up to wait beside the door. It would not be long now until her tent was ready; Jaime had insisted the men set that up first. 

"No one knows," as the shadows grew long, Tommen had tired of looking out the windows and reading Sansa's books and had pressed Joy for information about Casterly Rock. He had been there once, but had been so young he remembered little of it, while Joy had spent most of her life there. She had set aside her work and leaned back against her chair, "in the Reach, it is said that he was a bastard of Florys the Fox or Rowan Gold-Tree, but Aunt Genna told us that Lann deceived Garth Greenhand by posing as one of his sons to make off with part of his inheritance." 

"How did Garth Greenhand not know he was not his son?" Sansa asked. 

"He had a great many sons," Joy smiled at her, "some tales say he was a god, and the father of all houses of Westeros, from the North to Dorne." 

"Are there no tales of Lann the Clever in the North, Sansa?" Tommen asked. It was not hard to talk to the young prince, he was small and sweet, and looked far different from his brother. His hair was a pale gold, his eyes a deep green, and Sansa would not have minded if he was the elder brother.  

"Not many. A singer who visited the castle once said that he stole gold from the sun to brighten his hair," Sansa offered. She remembered well, as she had asked him to repeat many of his songs, and cried when he had left, "he said that the Westerlands had once been filled with people of dark hair, like those of the Reach, but Lann had so many children that now even the smallfolk of the Westerlands have hair of gold." 

"It is said he lived to the age of three hundred and twelve, and sired a hundred bold sons and a hundred lissome daughters, all fair of face, clean of limb, and with hair 'as golden as the sun'," Jeyne's hands had stilled on the fabric in her lap, her head was still bowed, but her eyes lingered on Joy's face as she spoke. It reminded Sansa of their childhood in Winterfell, she would have Joy continue if only to see the sadness leave Jeyne's face a while longer, "but there is one tale that I like better than the rest." 

"Tell us," Sansa encouraged. She was sitting up today, her silks light due to the heat of the road, and Tommen curled into the window to her right. It had been in Winterfell where she last had the time for such simple talk, with Arya missing, she and Jeyne eagerly listening to Septa Mordane. 

"House Lannister began as First Men, when Lann the Clever took the Casterly daughters as his wives. Some think that Lann the Clever was of the First Men, as I said, but others think he was an Andal. It does not seem so to me, though, because House Lannister first fought the Andals," Joy's green eyes gleamed in the candlelight as Sansa turned in her seat, "a maester once came to Casterly Rock, and he told a tale before going on his way. 

"He believed that Lann the Clever was from a great empire of the east, past the Bone Mountains, where they had bright eyes and hair of gold and silver. He said the tales of Lann's lioness killing Lord Casterly were true," Joy's smile was sad. "Aunt Genna thought him a great fool, but we fed him as is proper, and he was soon on his way to Oldtown." 

"Why did he believe that?" Jeyne's voice was still soft, but she rarely spoke directly to any Lannister, even Joy. She had said little since Tommen joined them in the wheelhouse. 

"He said he had spent eight years in the far east, mapping the lands and seeking lost lore. Who knows what a man could find there?" 

"Do you believe him?" Tommen asked, eyes wide as he leaned forward, feet braced against the jostling of the road. 

"I...am not certain," Joy admitted, "he only told this tale when Aunt Genna asked him to tell us something of his travels. Perhaps he did not want to tell us and was lying, perhaps he was incorrect. I do not know. If they do not tell of Lann the Clever in the North, what tales do they tell their children?" 

"Father told us about Bran the Builder, who built the Wall and Winterfell with the help of the giants and the children of the forest. He was the first of the Kings of Winter." 

"In the Reach, it is said that Bran the Builder was a son of Brandon of the Bloody Blade, who was a son of Garth Greenhand," Joy offered, and Sansa frowned. 

"We were told that Bran the Builder had a son named Brandon, who built Storm's End and Hightower." 

"Which one is right?" Tommen looked at Sansa, but it was Joy who answered. 

"The maesters say that perhaps neither is right. There were many Brandons of House Stark, perhaps the reigns of multiple kings have been remembered as one." 

The prince considered this. If she had not been sitting with Lannisters, Sansa would have said that her father would never have lied to her, but she was and so she said nothing. Jaime's name may protect her, but she did not dare start proclaiming her father correct even in such a minor thing. 

"Are giants real, Sansa? And the children of the forest?" 

"Old Nan, a wet nurse to my great-uncle, said that giants are outsized men who live in enormous castles, wield large swords, and wear huge boots. She said that giants eat humans, that they mix human blood into their porridge and eat bulls whole." 

"One maester thought that giants buried their dead, as we do," Joy said, when Tommen said nothing. Sansa was worried she had scared him, but he turned to Joy, eager for more knowledge, "their bones have been found in Essos as well." 

"What about the children of the forest? Do they eat men as well?" 

"I do not think so," Sansa did not know, in truth, "the stories I was told were about the war between the First Men and the children. The First Men feared the children, and cut down trees and burned them. The children worshiped the trees. It is said that the children destroyed the Arm of Dorne and flooded the Neck while trying to break it, during that war. Eventually they signed a pact on the Isle of Faces, ending the war." 

"So no one won?" 

"No. The First Men were stronger, but the children used magic to stop them." 

Tommen turned to Joy again, "are their children of the forest is Essos as well?" 

Her handmaiden hesitated before answering, "there may be. There is a great forest along the northern coast of central Essos, and some maesters believe they are inhabited by a race similar to the children." 

"No one knows?" 

"The stories that come from the Far East are few, and many men who enter there never return." 

"I want to go! I want to see these forests!" Tommen proclaimed, but Joy shook her head. 

"You cannot go, my Prince. You are to the Lord of Storm's End one day, you must rule the people of the Stormlands and insure their prosperity." 

"But I don't want to," Tommen protested, "I want to be an explorer. My septa said that I would be a knight because I was a second son. Why can't I be an explorer?" 

Joy's smile was gone as she answered Tommen, "there are things we must do that we do not want to do, and there are things we cannot do that we want to do. You must be a lord, for the good of your people. You do not want to now, but perhaps you will once you learn more of it." 

"I do _not want_  to be a lord, and I never will!" Jeyne flinched backward at his tone. Sansa did not realize that she had gone very still until the side of the wheelhouse rattled and she turned to see Ser Daven looking inside. 

"Is everything all right, Lady Sansa?" He was looking at Tommen, and the young prince could not hold his gaze. 

"Yes, Ser Daven, thank you. The prince was only a little upset." 

The knight did not look convinced, and Tommen quickly added, "I am sorry, I didn't mean to yell." 

"No harm was done," Sansa assured her sworn sword, who still did not look as though he believed her, but straightened on his horse nonetheless.  

"Your tent is ready, Lady Sansa," he dismounted as Joy unlocked the door, opening it and setting the stairs in place, "I will see you to it. The prince can wait here with his Kingsguard for his own tent." 

Tommen made no protest, and although Sansa usually waited with him, she took her knight's hand and allowed him to help her down the steps. He was a Lannister too, but he had never so much as raised his voice to her and had once threatened to kill a Kingsguard who was a bit too insistent about being admitted to her. She trusted him as much as she trusted anyone in this camp. 

He led her over the muddy road to the flat ground beyond it, held aside the tent flap so she could slip inside, and stayed to guard her. Sansa wished she could reward him for his service to her, but the only thing she had of value were the precious jewels tucked tightly into the one trunk that never left her side. Those she could not give away, but they led her thoughts to Jaime. Perhaps he would be willing to reward the knight on her behalf? 

Joy had moved to dress the bed in blankets, and Jeyne to fetch the things Sansa would need before night, but for a moment she felt lost. Already a maid was hurrying to set out food, two men were carrying in a trunk, another straightening the rug on the floor. She felt as though she was in the way.  

"Is what yout told the prince true?" Joy asked, and Sansa picked up her skirts and moved toward her, wary of being tripped over. 

"About the children of the forest? I was always told that it was, by my septa and my father." 

"I was told that they were only a race of men that lived in Westeros before the First Men came." 

"My father did not think so. He said they had only three fingers, with sharp claws in place of nails," Sansa wished that she had spent more time listening to his tales. It had been Arya who loved them, while she was enamored with the god of the south, of the fair Maiden and brave Warrior.  

Joy seemed eager to hear any tales of the ages before the coming of the Andals, when there had been no septons to write of the events, but when another voice sounded at the entrance to the tent she pressed no further, "Lady Sansa? Lord Jaime sends word that he will eat with his brother tonight." 

"Thank you, Ser Daven," she answered. Jaime had always eaten dinner with her before, but when she looked to Joy the girl was unconcerned, "did I displease him?" 

"What?" 

"Lord Jaime always eats with me at night." 

"I can ask if you are invited, if you wish to see him," Joy offered, "I am certain he did not mean to seem rude. It is not uncommon to eat separately on the road, if something must be done. It is difficult to do anything when riding all day." 

"No, there is food here. Will you and Jeyne stay to eat with me?" Sansa knew that Joy's version of asking would be closer to scolding, and she did not wish to upset Jaime or Tyrion.  

If she had known how late it would be before Jaime returned to her, she might have made a different choice. They ate leisurely, trading stories of their childhoods, although Jeyne would still not look at Joy when she spoke. Afterward they helped Sansa dress for the night, Jeyne brushed her hair until it shone while Joy fetched a silk chemise that would serve as a better nightgown than the woolen one Sansa had made in King's Landing. Although they would have stayed, Sansa eventually sent her handmaidens to their own beds. 

She was considering snuffing out the candles when a noise outside the tent drew her attention, and Jaime ducked into the tent. Sansa wondered what he and Tyrion had spoken about for so long, but did not ask. He fumbled with his cloak for a moment, laying it across the back of a chair where the lion overlayed on the red-and-gold gleamed in the flickering light, "I am sorry if I am late, Sansa." 

"It is no matter, my Lord," she meant her words to be assuring, but he looked a bit guilty as she spoke. 

"Jaime, Sansa, please. Daven mentioned Tommen startled you this evening?" Sansa could feel her face flush. 

"He is only a boy, and was upset. He was told he could be a knight, and now must be a lord. Joy said that he must be a lord and he did not like that." 

"Joy said that?" 

"Yes, my- Jaime," she tried to ignore the grin that formed at her slip of the tongue.  

"She has grown up, then. When she was a girl she insisted she would be a maester." 

 _She is still a girl_ , but Sansa knew better than to say that, "only men can be maesters." 

"A pity, because she would have made a fine one. She is like Tyrion, and her father; she loves to read things from books, to learn everything there is to know," Jaime set his sword against the bed and carefully unlaced his false hand, the grin still in place, "I was more of a swordsman, myself." 

"She did not tell me about her father. Is her mother a Lannister?" 

"Her mother was a Lorathi woman named Briony. Gerion said he meant to marry her once he had my father's approval, but she died two years after coming to Westeros." 

"Then, Gerion Lannister..." 

Jaime managed to remove his doublet, "he sailed for Valyria, in search of the Valyrian sword Brightroar, and never returned. He asked my father to have Joy legitimized, but set sail before it was done." 

"And Lord Tywin did not do as his brother asked?" 

"I expect he will, if he does not simply marry Joy to a lord who's name is worth more than her own," Jaime paused in untying the laces to his shirt to look at her, "my father loved his brothers, in his own way. He has cared for Gerion's daughter because of that, and he will find her a good marriage." 

Sansa thought of Jon Snow, then. Her father had been a great friend to King Robert, if he had asked for Jon to be legitimized, he would have been. It would have been easier to find Jon some small lands and a castle, or perhaps a marriage to a Mormont daughter, if he had. Jon would have had an easier life if he was raised as a trueborn son, although it would have hurt her mother. Sansa herself was unsure of why, as Jon would still inherit even after Arya, but she did not doubt that her mother would not have liked it. 

Jaime was snuffing out the candles now, and Sansa slid to the far side of the bed. She turned away to give him privacy as he set a candle by the bed, to give him enough light to remove the last of his clothing before he joined her under the sheets. As he doused the last bit of light, he spoke, "if you wish to read some of the books Joy has, you might ask Tyrion. He has even brought a few along with him." 

He was facing away from her, as he always did. Sansa knew by his voice, and after a moment she rolled back over to shift closer to him. She did not want to admit to herself that being close to him made her feel safe, but she did not like the thin tent walls and the noise of camp. He was a Lannister, like all the rest, but among them he was the safest. She squirmed as close as she could get without actually touching him, "I will ask him in the morning. Perhaps he has one that Joy has not read." 

Her voice sounded small, and she hoped he would not turn to face her, "Sansa?"

"Yes?"

"I want to thank you for helping Tommen this morning. Ser Patrek is a new knight, more used to taking orders from an individual than serving a king," Sansa did not know what to say, and before she could rely he continued, "I know I have not kept my promise to protect you, but you have nothing to fear from any of these men. If they harm you, I will see them punished."

 _"Thank you."_ It was not the proper response, but Sansa could not remember it and did not think Jaime would want it if she could. He shifted slightly, propping himself up so he could see her, pulling away so he did not bump into her.

"I will do my best to protect you. I swear it."

She had woken more than once wrapped around him, but he had never protested when she drew away. For that, she was grateful. Had he tried to cling to her she might have panicked. When she drew up enough courage to press her hands to his shoulders, all but cowering against him, he lifted one of his own to gently grasp it. 

Sansa dreams of the North again. Of the cold wind blistering against her nose, of frightened horses, and nervous men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! 
> 
> I'm starting to work on Sansa's relationships with some of the minor characters, since she and Jaime only see each other at night, really.


	23. Mother of Dragons IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is wed to Hizdahr of Loraq. He is no king, she is not a Ghiscari queen, yet they will pretend for the sake of peace.

6/19/300

From her rooms at the top of the pyramid, Daenerys watched Meereen celebrate her wedding. 

It had gone well, that was true, but that was because of Arianne, not Dany herself. When the Dornishwoman had told her that they desired that she should allow her womb to be inspected by the women of Hizdahr's house, she had half a mind to call the wedding off, but Arianne was persuasive. Daenerys was a queen, after all, and if the House of Loraq was to examine her, then it was only proper for her House to examine him. Dany had been happy to offer Drogon for the task, and thus it was quickly forgotten. Instead the Graces settled for washing her in oils and praying over her. She had one daughter, they assured her, they did not need proof of her fertility. Dany had no interest in correcting that assumption. 

In return for Arianne's cleverness, Dany did all the minor things they had asked without protest – at least, without protest to them. She had eaten their cake and smiled at Hizdahr's mother, washed his feet and had hers washed in return, and dressed in the white silk tokar fringed with pearls, although she insisted there be a dragon on her red veils. Arianne had ordered it done, but Daenerys knew from the Green Grace's eyes that she did not approve. 

 _“Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble,"_ Arianne had said that morning, as she wrapped Dany in the white tokar. Her own was in the colors of House Martell, bright with beads and a dragon claw around her neck. Dany had refused to allow Hizdahr's sisters and mother to help with this, but Arianne was as much a family as she had. She could not turn her away, " _Your_ _joining will join your freedmen to his people. When you become as one, so will your city.”_  

They had ridden through the streets in the palanquin. Arianne had been as insistent upon her riding it as Illyrio had once been on her riding her silver before Khal Drogo. Dany had turned to her and asked, " _Does it matter that Hizdahr’s kisses do not please me?"_  

 _"Are you_ _a queen or just a woman?"_ Her good-niece sounded as she had these past nights when she shared Dany's bed to insure that Daario could not. "Will peace not please you? Rhaegar started a war for Lyanna Stark when he had my aunt and two healthy children. I beg you, if you cannot do this tell me now."  

 _If I look back I am lost._  

Dany had thought of the man Aegon, who would watch her wedding this day, and remembered that he might be Prince of Dragonstone if Rhaegar had not stolen his Stark. Little Rhaenys, with a face so like Arianne's own in her dreams, might still live to marry some high lord. She had thought of Viserys and his crown, of Rhaegar and his ruby armor, of her mother who Viserys mourned so dearly. That, and the Freedmen who could be dead but for Hizdahr, had given her the strength to take the hand of Hizdahr zo Loraq and _follow_ _the Green Grace inside the temple, where the air was thick with incense and the gods of_ _Ghis_ _stood cloaked in shadows in their alcoves._  

Their marriage under the gods of Ghis had taken four hours. Dany recited the words, followed their rituals, and looked her husband in the face while the Graces prayed. _Four hours later, they had emerged again as man and wife, bound together wrist and ankle with chains of yellow gold._ Afterward, they had married again by Westerosi rites, shorter and simpler though they were, they felt heavier than the vows in the Ghiscari temple. Hizdahr's mother gave him away, Arianne and Quentyn and this Aegon at her side. If this is how Hizdahr had felt in the temple she could forgive those long hours. 

They had feasted what seemed the entire city. The cooks had made the _noble Hizdahr's favorite meal, dog in honey, stuffed with prunes and peppers,_ but Arianne had ordered horseflesh roasted with honey and pepper served as well. Dany had never been more pleased with her clever good-niece. Somehow the taste brought the fire back to Dany's blood as the hours drew on. 

Now she stood on her terrace, grass soft under her feet and the stone cool against her bare skin as she leaned against it to look over her city. Many lights still gleamed far below, and the rumble of voices could be heard even here, as a whisper on the wind. It was said that Freedmen and noblemen alike celebrated her wedding. Dany had wed for one, and Hizdahr for the other, but she hoped that they might find peace together. The Green Grace prayed for such this night, but Dany had no gods to pray to. The gods of Westeros felt truer to her than those of Old Ghis, yet she would sooner pray to the Great Stallion than either of them. 

The soft padding of feet drew her attention from the exaltation below. Her royal husband had donned a braies and soft slippers to follow her out to the garden. He carried his wine glass and her own, but the wine he carried was neither the pale Ghiscari wine most had drank at their wedding nor the Arbor gold that Arianne had gifted her. It was golden, it's bottle was engraved with strange symbols that Dany did not recognize, yet still knew they were very old. 

She accepted the glass he offered, let him pour the wine, "what is this?" 

"My third gift, my Queen," he looked pleased with himself "this is a golden vintage from the Jade Sea." 

"I was once told that _they make a golden vintage so fine that one sip makes all other wines taste like vinegar_ , yet few bottles come even to Qarthe." 

"Fewer and few. Is what you were told true?" She had never tasted a wine like this, she wondered if even the Targaryens Kings had. It was a good third gift, better than the pretty Meereenese girl, Hizdahr's sister, who he brought to serve as her handmaiden. At first Dany had feared the girl a slave, now she knew her to be a spy. Yet no wine could be as good as his second gift, the gold champagne stallion he had chosen to pair with her silver.  Even her bloodriders had been amazed at the horse; Dany had but looked at the stallion and decided that Rhaego would ride their foal. 

"It is the finest wine I have ever tasted," she admitted, "you have chosen good gifts." 

"As have you, my Queen." Dany had been instructed to tell no one that she had not ordered the crown that was presented to Hizdahr at their wedding feast. Neither could she claim that she had thought of the three dragonscales, one green, one white, and one black, that had been gifted to him before they entered the temple. Both had been Arianne's doing. For Dany's part, she was not certain what to gift him last. 

"I have not given you my third gift." 

Her noble husband took a long drink of the wine, "as I said, _Meereen has been steeped in these foolish old traditions for too long._ I have you, Radiance. You are worth more than thirty and three gifts." He paused, looked over the balcony with her to the city below, and nursed his wine before he continued, "May I ask you something?" 

"You are my royal husband. You may ask anything, I only may not chose to answer." 

He laughed softly, "in the city, it is said that the man who has come, the one with the same silver hair as yours, is your nephew." 

"He says he is my nephew," although it still did not compare to the stallion, Dany was suddenly glad he had chosen to gift her wine, "I do not know what to believe." 

"Is there no one to speak for his parentage? His mother or father?" 

"He says his mother was Elia Martell, but she was killed in the Sack of King's Landing before I was even born. He says his father is Prince Rhaegar, my brother, but he died before Elia did. Aegon was said to die too, in the Red Keep with his mother." 

Hizdahr was quiet. When he spoke, his voice was softer and somber, "I will help you find the truth, if I can. I hope he is your nephew, for your sake, my Queen." 

"As do I, but I cannot rely on hope. Every day men come, drawn by my dragons, and lust for their power. Were you told of the man who arrived today?" 

"The maester from Westeros? Princess Arianne mentioned him at our feast. I had thought you would be pleased." 

"I am not displeased," he smiled again at that. When he offered more wine she lowered her glass for him. As he leaned toward her, Dany found herself looking into his eyes. She set her wine glass on the parapet while she kept his gaze; he stilled as she stepped close. They had consummated their marriage, yes, but his kisses had been soft and she had only done her duty to her husband. 

 _Are you a slave, Khaleesi?_  

Doreah had died in the Red Waste, her voice came unbidden, but it gave Dany pause. She had done her duty to Khal Drogo once, yer their lovemaking had not been that. She lifted her hand to Hizdahr's face, raised her lips to his and kissed him. His movements were light, his lips feather-soft when he brought them down to hers, his hand cupped her face but she hardly felt the touch. 

 _He fears you. You are a dragon, Daenerys,_ _a great_ _khal_ _._  

They separated after only a moment, and she again sipped at her wine, "you told me you had two baseborn children?" 

He stiffened ever so slightly, but it was gone a moment later. Had Dany not been as close as she was, she would have thought she imagined it, "yes, my Queen, a girl and a boy." 

"Tell me, Hizdahr zo Loraq. Husband," she smiled at him over the rim of her wine glass, "did you kiss their mothers as softly as you kiss me?" 

"They were not dragons," Arianne was right. His voice was soft and he did not meet her gaze. He feared her, but he hid it well, slowly pouring himself more wine although he had hardly drank what he had. Dany looked back over the city, remembering. 

 _I am the blood of the dragon. The dragon is never afraid._  

She knew fear well. She had feared Viserys and Robert Baratheon and Khal Drogo. She had feared for herself once, and now she feared for Rhaego. Her daughter would be The Stallion Who Mounts the World, this she had sworn.  

"What do you know of the Dothraki?" 

"Little and less," he admitted, voice smooth, eyes wary, "we pay them to stay away from our cities instead of interacting with them." 

Dany stole the wine bottle from him, then took his hand in hers. He followed willingly as she padded through the grass, to the persimmon tree that grew in the terrace garden. She set her wine glass on the little table that she so often broke her fast on, turned to take his as well. After she had placed it beside her own, she turned to face him. She was bare from their consummation, he clad only in braies and soft slippers. She sank down into the grass under the tree and reached out a hand for him. 

"The Dothraki believe that all things of importance in life must be done beneath the open sky." 

"You are not Dothraki." 

When he had settled beside her, awkward on the earth, she brought his hand up to her hair. Her veils were long since gone, but her khal's braids were still in place, her bells still in her hair, "will you help me with my hair?" 

He leaned forward instantly, hands gentle. Slowly, carefully, he began to undo her braid. 

"I am not Ghiscari either,"Hizdahr was no khal, but he removed the bells one by one, and set them near their glasses respectfully. Then he pulled the braids apart. Her hair was shorter than it had once been, but she had gained dragons when she lost it and had not cared. Her husband said nothing of it either. When her braids had been undone he carded his fingers through her hair, letting it fall to frame her face before sitting back. "What do the Ghiscari believe?"  

Once he was again looking into her eyes, he answered, "many things, Radiance: that the gods of Old Ghis are the only true gods, that it is ill luck to eat birdflesh on the Harpy's sacred days, that the number three is sacred to our gods." 

"What do you believe, noble husband?" 

"I believe that _before you came Meereen was dying. Our rulers were old men with withered cocks and crones whose puckered cunts were dry as dust. They sat atop their pyramids sipp_ _ing apricot wine and talking of_ _the_ _glories of the Old Empire whist the centuries slipped by and the very bricks of the city crumbled all round them. Custom and caution had an iron grip upon us till you awakened us with fire and blood. I believe that a new time has come, and new things are possible."_  

Dany leaned forward in the cool grass, to take Hizdahr's slipper in one hand. She pulled it away, cast it aside with far less care than he had had with her bells, and repeated the motion with the other. There were no whispers here, no whickers of horses, no dull mummer of warriors. The light of the city blocked out many stars, her husband was a nobleman and not a khal, but she kissed him sharply as she undressed him. 

It had been many moons since she had been Drogo's khaleesi, but still she remembered that first night when she had made him love her. Hizdahr was more docile than her khal had been, but this only made it easier for her. Dany pressed him into the grass and did the things Doreah had told her to do, so long ago in the Great Grass Sea.  

There were many pleasure houses in Meereen, yet her husband moaned her name easily. Still, his hands were gentle. When she mounted him she guided his hands to her hips. They stuttered there, uncertain, letting her guide them. This may have pleased the women of Meereen - other queens, even - but Daenerys was the blood of the dragon and it did not please her. Again and again, when he was nearly at the peak of his pleasure, she slowed, grinding her hips against his until his gasps turned to cries. 

It took longer than she had thought it would, for all his meekness, Hizdahr had substantial self-control, but at last he tired of her game. He half sat up, in her garden beneath her persimmon tree, on the soft grass that grew there. She did not stop her movement, but something had shifted now.  His hands strayed from her hips, smoothing over her skin as though he intended to worship her, before they gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Dany was in his arms now, he bucked against her, she rolled her hips in time with his; their bodies knew how to complete this dance. 

Afterward, she sank into his chest, her silver-blonde hair brilliant against his amber skin. She traced the fingertips of one hand over his chest to feel his breath as it moved through his body in time with her own. Dany did not intend to stay there long, in the grassy garden atop her pyramid. It was not that she minded it; she had slept on the streets of the Free Cities, on the horseskin pallets of the Dothraki, even in the sands of the Red Waste. Soft grass was a gift after all of that.  

Yet her husband was accustomed to feather beds and silk sheets, not the hard ground. He did not complain, only tangled a hand in her hair, combing through it softly, the other resting at her waist, but a sore husband would make a poor start to their marriage. She closed her eyes only for a moment, waiting for his breath to even before they returned to their candlelit room and soft bed. 

Dany only half woke when she was lifted from the ground, her body cradled carefully. She could hear the sounds of her children. She would have stirred to see what was happening, but then she was nestled into the familiar smell of her bed, a warm body against hers. Dany reached out for Drogon, found the black  high over the city, free and unafraid, glorying in the power of his wings.  

She relaxed into the scent of spiceflower and cinnamon, and let the warmth lull her back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that fluff chapter on Dany I promised. I think this justifies that Dany/Hizdahr tag I added, right?
> 
> Next chapter: Deep Den or King's Landing?
> 
> Again, thanks to those who commented! I've taken more hours at work lately, and been on a Dany fling while I pinned down what's going on at the Rock.


	24. The Imp II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Lord Tywin is not as mad as Tyrion had thought.

5/17/300

By the time the great waterfall at Deep Den came into view, the sun had reached it's highest point. 

Jaime had relaxed once they had crossed into the Westerlands. They had spent a night entertained by Lord Bettley, Sansa's sweet manner and noble blood quickly dissuading any negative perception that their hosts had of the young Stark. By the end of the night he had been mourning not offering his own son for the marriage. Tyrion had settled for hoping Sansa did not notice the oddness of the old lord's reaction and left Jaime to silence the man.  

They had left early the next morning, but Tyrion had again insisted they stop at House Hamell. It was improper for the sons of the reigning Lord Lannister to pass through the Westerlands and avoid all their bannermen's houses, yes, but in truth Tyrion had no wish to reach Deep Den. Cousin Myrielle was there, serving as a handmaiden to Lady Lydden, and although Tyrion had sent Shae away for her sake, he did not want to see her face when she realized who her father had offered her hand to. 

Lord Hamell had no wife or daughters, but he was a loyal bannerman to the Lannisters. Unlike their previous host, he was perfectly polite. He kissed Sansa's hand and admired her beauty, congratulated Jaime and feasted them all. Jaime had left in a fairer mood, letting the men slow their pace once the mountains were in view. Tyrion could sense the excitement of the men. They had been riding for a quarter moon now, and it was likely that they would spend several days at Deep Den. They would have the comforts Sansa was used too, and Myrielle would have a chance to say her goodbyes. 

At the entrance to the keep, Lewys Lydden and his eldest son waited to welcome them. Jaime slid from his mare to greet them, but, by the time Tyrion had managed the same feat, Sansa had climbed from the wheelhouse. Dressed in the gold silks of Casterly Rock, she padded across the courtyard with a sweet smile. 

"This is the Lady Lannister?" Lord Lewys' voice was booming, "The gods themselves have blessed you with a Riverlands maid, Lord Jaime." 

Sansa's face flushed, "I fear you have mistaken me, my Lord. I was a Stark of Winterfell." 

"Your mother was Lord Hoster's eldest girl? She married Eddard Stark." 

"She was, my Lord." 

"I am not your Lord," he laughed, "you are my Lady. The Lyddens have been loyal to the Lannisters for thousands of years, even intermarried so much we now have their hair. You look like your mother, Lady Sansa." 

"Thank you, Lord Lydden." Sansa gripped her skirts as if she wished to curtsey, but she made no move to. Even in the North daughters of liege lords did not curtsey to bannermen. 

"We thank you for hosting us, Lord Lewys," Tyrion added, as he waddled up to stand next to Jaime. "If your wife still in the Riverlands?" 

"She returned some time ago, Lord Vypren's men have already left," he paused there, and Tyrion did not like the suspicion that bloomed at his hesitance. 

"My lady mother is ill, Lord Tyrion," his son was a man grown, knighted and wed. He had fought some battle, but Tyrion did not remember which one, "she begs forgiveness for her absence." 

"Margot will join us at dinner," the old lord straightened his green-and-brown tunic, cleared his throat, and motioned to the great doors in the mountainside. "Come, you must be tired from your traveling, I'll have you seen to your rooms." 

Inside, two handmaidens appeared. The first took him a moment to place. She was tall and fleshy with a thin neck, and she wore the purple sigil of House Plumm. The other he knew. Myrielle Lannister had the curly golden hair and dark green eyes of a Lannister. She was shorter than most, but she looked quite like his sister, save for her wide eyes and nervous smile. Both girls curtseyed as Lord Lewys motioned to them. 

"You look like my lady mother." the entire room paused at Jaime's words. He smiled at Myrielle kindly, "Even more than my sister does. You are her niece indeed." 

"Thank you, my Lord," her voice was softer than Cersei's as well. Something about it was familiar, although Tyrion could not place it.  

"Lord Jaime, Lythene will see you and your lady to your rooms," he smiled at Tyrion as though it was Jaime who had come for Myrielle and not a dwarf as he continued, "Lord Tyrion, this is Myrielle. Your lord father's letter carried the news of your betrothal." 

"Since you speak of the letter, where is my squire? I expected him to await us here." 

Lord Lewys turned to look behind him, frowning, "Payne?" 

Tyrion had thought it was a question, but a moment later he realized that Podrick was lingering behind the two handmaidens on the stairs. He scurried toward the group. 

"I'm sorry. My lord. Sorry." 

"Your squire," Lord Lewys sounded unimpressed, but Tyrion could not blame him just now. 

"Ah, Podrick. Go with Lady Sansa. Willem will be guarding her while camp is set, he could use your aid," the boy nodded quickly. 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Excellent," Lord Lewys smiled brightly, "I understand Myrielle is to be one of Lady Sansa's ladies, so she has been released from my wife's service. You are free to walk in the gardens or ride through the camp. Whatever pleases you." 

Tyrion wanted to refuse, but that would be improper and Jaime was staring at him while Sansa made some sweet reply to Lord Lewys. He had gone on for three days about propriety, he could not start ignoring his own words now. Myrielle was short for a Lannister, but still seven inches taller than he was; nevertheless, he offered her his hand. He expected the hesitation, but not the feeling when she grasped his hand. 

He looked down on instinct. Myrielle's hand was thin and fair, but the last two fingers of her hand were missing, along with a crescent-shaped bit of her hand from the same location. The reason hit him an instant later: the story of a riding accident, the once-bright girl's shy behavior, the reason she was handmaiden to the wife of one of the Lannister's most loyal bannermen. It also explained why Willas Tyrell was betrothed to thin, brown eyed Cerenna instead of her prettier sister who had the classical Lannister look. 

It was only an instant before his eyes darted back up, yet already Myrielle would not meet his eyes. Tyrion wanted to ask if she found his disfigurement better than her own, but if he had not known of this, it was likely that few did. Instead, he held her hand because he could not offer her his arm, and said, "Lady Myrielle, it is an honor to meet you. As Lord Lewys has been so kind, would you show me to these gardens?" 

"O- of course, my Lord," the girl was blushing as sharply as Sansa ever had. 

"Sansa, you go ahead," Jaime said, "I wish to speak with Lord Lewys." 

Tyrion did as well, but he knew that Jaime would never let the matter go if he ignored Myrielle. It had been he who guilted Jaime into paying attention to his own wife, after all. He repressed a laugh. If Tywin ever found out that Jaime and Cersei were fucking, he would realize the mistake he made not marrying Jaime to Myrielle. Jaime would have no protest to getting a child on Myrielle; she was older than Sansa, and, if a bit taller, would look very much like Cersei. At least until one of them opened their mouth. Meanwhile, Tyrion had much sympathy for Sansa's lot. 

"I am told you have spent many years in King's Landing, my Lord," she was bolder than Sansa, if less broken. Although her face was red and she did not look at him, she spoke in a polite, mannered tone. 

"I have, and such fun it has been," she made no answer, and he knew he had been cruel. "I apologize, Lady Myrielle, I can be harsh at times. Between the war and Blackwater... it was not an enjoyable experience." 

"What of before that? When King Robert yet lived?" Cerenna had visited Cersei in the capitol, he knew, but Myrielle had only left Casterly Rock when she came to Deep Den. "I understand the Grand Maester keeps a magnificent library." 

That gave Tyrion pause, "many. If you wished to read a certain one, I could send for it." 

Myrielle had led him to another side of the castle. Here too was a courtyard similar to the one at the great doors of Deep Den, but instead of men and horses this one contained plants. Surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs and the fourth by a wooden gate, the gardener here had done well at his work. Green encompassed the garden, spilling up the brown walls and even over the stairs carved into the cliffside. 

"It is a bit strange, my Lord, but I have always wanted to read the Jade Compendium," he had expected to be asked of Robert's fabled tourneys and handsome knights. Of books on the Prince of Dragonflies and of songs of maidens and knights. He had never seen his lady mother to compare them, but he would be pleased if his wife liked to read. 

"There is no need to send for that," he had lent the book to Sansa, but he doubted she would mind if he took it back, "I have a copy here with me. I will have a maid find it and you may read it as long as you like." 

Tyrion would have been lost in the garden long ago, but Myrielle navigated the maze easily. He did not know how, as the hedges towered over her head as well as his. After several sharp turns, they came upon a little bench overlooking a cluster of flowers. He accepted the seat gladly, yet once he sat, he reached for his betrothed's other hand. She gave it easily, and looked into his face when he turned to her. 

"Lady Myrielle, I am unsure if they told you. If you wish to refuse this betrothal you are welcome to. Your father did not want you unhappy, and I'm quite certain your brother would cut me in two if he thought I would make you so." 

She drew back, her head tilting up slightly, "you find me ugly." 

The words were so unexpected that it took Tyrion several moments to process them. Once he had, he looked down at himself to see if he had somehow changed bodies with Jaime, or grown several feet. When he looked back up at Myrielle he was baffled, "I am a dwarf? I have mismatched eyes, a flat face, and half a nose." 

The girl considered him a moment, "you have lovely hair, and I quite like your eyes, in truth." 

"And my nose accents my flat face." 

"As my Lord says." 

"If you intend to insult me, at least call me 'Tyrion' while you do so," she had not smiled before, but now she did. It was gone as soon as it came. 

"As Tyrion says."  

"You think a horse's hoof can do worse than the gods themselves?" 

"I think a son of Tywin Lannister might want a wife who is not maimed," Tyrion lifted her hand before their faces, so they both could see it.  

"This is an injury. It does not mar your beauty, nor your intelligence," perhaps that was what he had seen in her that was different from Cersei, and not merely the shade of their eyes, "you could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms if you wanted them. My father would find you a good marriage if you refused me." 

Myrielle's eyes softened ever so slightly, and then she looked down, "I wish to stay at Casterly Rock." 

"So much that you would marry a dwarf." 

She tugged her hand from his, but rather than pulling it back, she reached forward. She paused a centimeter from his nose – from what had been his nose – and her eyes met his. "Might I touch you?" 

Tyrion had never been asked that before. Even whores avoided his face, and for good reason. He made a sound of surprise which she took for consent, and he was too startled to correct her. With exquisite gentleness, she traced the line where the sword had cut into his face, ran her thumb over his cheekbones, let her fingers brush the edges of his hair. Then she drew back to look down at her ruined hand. 

"If it were not for this, Lord Tywin would have wed me to Willas Tyrell." 

"I know," she was beautiful indeed. If it were not for her hand, Tywin might have reserved her for Jaime. If she did look like their mother, Tyrion was half surprised he had not dispite it. If Margaery Tyrell could look past Joffrey's entire personality, could not her crippled brother look past a few missing fingers? 

"I will not reject a good match outright because you are disfigured. Perhaps that was the lesson the gods sought to teach me that day. I would know what kind of man you are before I decide. As you say, if you are cruel, my brother may cut you in two." 

No, this was not Sansa Stark. Sansa was more broken, yes, but from what he had seen of her at Winterfell, Sansa had never been this girl. Her injury had made her a shut in, but Myrielle was a Lannister by blood. She did not dream of a knight to carry her away from her world. Instead she had used her time as Lady Lydden's handmaiden to learn the love of books, had bent her injury to her father's sympathies. When Stafford had planned this, Tyrion was heir to Casterly Rock. Even if he did not inherit it, it was likely he would spend much time there, as Castamere was in ruins. Perhaps his father had been more clever than he had thought.  

He had given Jaime his sweet maiden, and Tyrion a wife intelligent enough to rule the Westerlands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion chapter :-)
> 
> Thanks for the comments guys! I really loved getting them. By special request: Podrick Payne. Not much of him, but at least he's here. I think Willem will be riding ahead next? Only fair to steal someone else's squire. 
> 
> Next up we get Sansa and Jaime, then we need to fit in that Winterfell chapter. We will see more of Tyrion, though, since we need to see how Myrielle's thing goes.


	25. Lady Lannister VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey hated her for her father's rebellion, but it was the Riverlands that the Lannisters invaded.

5/17/300

Sansa had tried to ignore the ache caused by the rocking wheelhouse. 

She had said nothing to her companions, but they knew. Joy had done her best to alleviate it, providing soft blankets and pillows to buffer Sansa's bruised body from the worst of the jolts, but nothing could have prevented them all. For all of Maester Pycelle's milk of the poppy and healing creams, she had hurt from the moment she woke three weeks past. In King's Landing, she had taken warm baths nightly once Maester Pyrelle allowed it, letting the heat soothe the hurt until she could sleep. Such was not possible on the Goldroad. Sansa had been forced to settle for the heat of fires, and Jaime's warmth in her bed at night. 

The rooms Lythene led her to were glorious, suited to the visiting liege lords of Deep Den. The older girl paused in the doorway as Jeyne lingered behind and Joy set the satchel she carried on the bed. Sansa had paused in the center of the room, uncertain. Jeyne padded up beside her, eyes like dinner plates, and leaned in to ask, "Sansa, would you like a bath?" 

"Do you have warm water?" Joy asked. From the satchel she drew a gown of purple-grey silk, trimmed with Myrish lace of Lannister gold. Sansa was again glad for her clever handmaid. Joy had brought a linen chemise and satin kirtle as well, suitable for the heat within the mountains and for the nobility of the Westerlands. 

"Lady Margot had a bath not long ago. I will have them heat the water, and the maids bring it up," Lythene Plumm closed the door as she left, Jeyne starting at the noise. The younger girl hurried over to the trunk the men had brought in, finding Sansa's sweet oils and soaps within the fabric and bringing them to the bench at the side of the room.  

"Sansa, do you wish to chose your jewels?" Joy had freed the wooden box from her satchel as well, and Sansa took it, grateful for the distraction. She sat on the bed while the maids hurried in and out under Joy's watchful eyes, and considered the Lyddens. It was the heavy ring of gold-and-rubies on her hand that prompted the decision, the ring that marked her as Jaime's wife, as someone to be respected in the Westerlands, and she lifted Lady Joanna's heavy necklace from it's place.  

Loose in the box were many smaller rings and necklaces of gold, dragonflies and moths, lions and wolves, even the necklace Joffrey had given her so long ago. The tiara was set in place at the top of the box as well, but she left it there. Sansa had no wish to be a queen, no wish to mimic Queen Cersei's style again, no wish to hurt her head by braiding and pinning her hair. Joy and Jeyne still wore the heavy braids of the Westerlands style, of Queen Cersei's style, but for vastly different reasons. Joy celebrated her Westerlands heritage and could often be heard singing softly to herself as she dressed for the day. Jeyne was trying to avoid attention; she would stare into a mirror furtively when she arranged her hair, hands shaking as she worked. She had not said where she had been when they were seperated. In truth, Sansa was afraid to ask. 

As Joy ushered the Lydden maids out and fetched her lavender soap, Sansa chose a golden moth from the jewels and set them aside. Jeyne helped with her dresses, and Sansa sank into the heat. Joy had scented it with oils, lavender and rosemary. The steam rose hot and fragrant as they helped Sansa into the tub. It was hot enough to cause tears to prick the corners of her eyes, but once her skin had become accustomed to the searing heat she could no longer feel the fading bruises. Most of them had already begun to fade, although the worst of them, the one on her stomach that had been dark purple when she woke, was only now beginning to turn pink-blue.  

Her handmaiden had gentle hands as she washed her skin. The soap washed the powder from her neck, soothed over her sore back, and cleansed the dirt of the Goldroad from her feet. While her handmaidens made ready for dinner, Sansa basked in the heat of the water. Only once it cooled did she summon them; Jeyne helped her from it and patted her dry with a soft towel. With careful hands they dressed her, straightened her undergowns and fluffed her underskirts, then clasped the silk overgown with dragonfly pendants crafted from gold. 

Sansa watched as Joy painted the visible bruises at her neck with white powder, dried the rosewater with a soft cloth, and smoothed a colorless, sweet-smelling grease over her lips. Last of all, Sansa had her soft grey doeskin slippers brought, the ones she had been given on her wedding day. When she looked into her mirror again, she felt like a lady. Sansa looked much like her lady mother, and less like the queen than she ever had at court. Her hair was hers again, waves curling over her head in the styles of the North, rather than the bundled braids of the Westerlands or the high, drawn styles of the Reach. 

Ser Daven was still missing from her door, but his squire Willem and Podrick Payne waited for her. She doubted the latter's abilities, but Willem's hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he smiled at her when she came to the door. Podrick had a sword as well, but he looked far too nervous to use it. Sansa comforted herself with the fact that he at least looked threatening. A maid led them through the corridors of the keep, up to the great dining hall where the feast had already begun. Jaime was seated at the high table, beside Lord Lydden, and Sansa took the seat beside him.  

As Lord Lydden had promised, his lady wife had joined them. The old lord had called her a Riverland's maid, but his wife could be named such as well. Her eyes were brown, but her hair as red as Sansa's own. As she settled into her place, she smiled at the woman, who did not so much as look up from her plate. Not long after she entered, Tyrion and the Lannister maiden arrived as well. Tyrion wore red-and-black, as he normally did, but Myrielle wore a pale yellow gown with sleeves long even by the standards of King's Landing.  

The girl was silent as Tyrion saw her to his seat and claimed his own, "Sansa, this is Lady Myrielle. Myrielle, this is Lady Sansa, Jaime's wife." 

Sansa smiled as her lady mother had taught her, "well met, Lady Myrielle. I understand you are to become one of my ladies?" Jeyne and Joy were lowborn, Jeyne the daughter of a minor Northern House, Joy a bastard of House Lannister. Neither were invited to the high table of one of the Lannister's greatest bannermen. Myrielle was different. She would likely bring her own handmaiden, serve as a companion rather than a maid. 

"I am honored, Lady Sansa," Myrielle's eyes grazed her own, before she turned back to the table. Sansa felt snubbed, but she pressed on. If the girl was to be hostile, she would rather know now. 

"I hope we can be friends. Lord Lydden mentioned that you are betrothed to Tyrion?" 

She turned her to look at Sansa, face still blank, "Lord Tyrion has been given permission to court my hand." 

"We all hope it will turn out well," Tyrion interjected, as Sansa's smile began to falter. "If it pleases Lady Myrielle, you will have a good-sister by year's end." 

"It's quite the match, really," Lady Lydden had looked up from her food. At her side, her son began to say something, but she continued over him, louder, to drown him out, "a mutilated handmaiden and the high lord's dwarf." 

That brought Myrielle's head up. She was staring at her former lady as though she had turned into a viper at the high table. She had not been loud enough to interrupt the entire hall, but those seated with them had gone still. 

"My brother is a son of House Lannister, Lady Margot," Jaime's voice was low and cold, "the son of your liege lord. It would do you well to treat him with the respect his position demands." 

"No, no," Tyrion sounded merrier than his brother, but that did not make him less dangerous, "the lady speaks true. Lord Tywin's dwarf I am. Yet I would have her retract her insult to my betrothed, Lady Myrielle is a trueborn Lannister daughter. I will not have her name besmirched." 

"Mother is only upset because she is very fond of Lady Myrielle," her son offered a smile that did nothing to tame the tension that had overcome the high table. 

"You did not know, did you?" The woman leaned across the table toward Sansa. She was suddenly very aware that she was sitting between two angry Lannister men. Jaime had no sword and Tyrion's arms were too weak to lift one, but that did not mean it was a safe place to be. "It's true. When Lord Tywin sent her to us he never bothered to mention it. Part of her hand is gone," her face curled into a mask of disgust, "turning her away would have earned the wrath of Lord Tywin, but I always had the other girl handle anything that involved touching me." 

Sansa found her words at the back of her throat, the weight of Lady Joanna's necklace helping them free, "it does not sound as though you are very fond of Lady Myrielle. If you were, you might have told me in private." 

"I was not aware that the Northerners were so delicate. Your uncle certainly wasn't, when he overturned House Frey and removed all my grandchildren from the line of succession." 

Sansa was baffled, and looking at Jaime she could see the same confusion on his face. Beside her, Tyrion said, "Your grandchildren were of House Vance, and you should be pleased that he did not have them sent to the Wall and sept rather than choosing Stevron Frey's son over his daughter." 

"Edmure Tully is my nuncle," Sansa did not like the rage on the woman's face, "not my father. I am not a Tully, but a Stark of Winterfell." 

"Your mother started this war," Lord Lydden seemed frozen in his seat, while his son looked behind him for the guards, "she stole Lord Tywin's son, she led the Starks south, her family was responsible for removing-" 

Her son caught her by the shoulders and pulled her back to her seat. Two of their household guards had come from the door, and although they drew some attention from the lower tables it did not stop Lady Lydden's rant, "-he removed the Swann girl's grandchildren too, as he did mine! The Tullys had no right!" 

"Father, please." 

At his son's plea, Lord Lydden roused himself, "Margot, return to your rooms. You are ill, you don't know what you are saying." 

"I know that they robbed my family!" 

"You are a Vypren, not a Frey," the old lord drew himself up, "you are a Lydden, and you shame your family." 

"Her mother was a Frey," Tyrion noted, "Lythene Frey. And your daughter married another." 

"Escort my wife to her rooms," the Lady Lydden shrugged her son's hands off her shoulders violently. She stood, glaring down at Sansa, before turning on her heel and storming away. The guards followed. Sansa could only stare after her. 

Lord Lydden cleared his throat, glanced down at his chair, and sat, "forgive her. Her mother has so recently died and this war... it has been hard on her." 

"It was hard on her?" Jaime had rested one hand on her leg. He reached for his doublet only to fumble along the outside with his false hand. He scowled and turned to where Tyrion sat, but a white flash appeared in Sansa's view before he could ask. Lady Myrielle had lent over to offer her own hankerchief. Sansa took it with a grateful, if forced, smile, and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. She did not want to sob over something her mother's brother had done. _I am a Lannister._  She told herself. _My marriage settled this war that Joffrey started._  

 "What of my wife? Was the war nor hard on her?" She expected Lord Lydden to retort that her family was a traitor and she deserved no less, but he said nothing for a long moment. His gaze went from Jaime to her, and back again. He did not dare insult Jaime, she realized. Even with Jaime's missing hand, even surrounded by his own men in his own hall, he was afraid to challenge the Lannisters. 

"I apologize, Lord Jaime." 

"She will apologize to Lady Sansa and to Lady Myrielle," Tyrion plucked the decanter of wine from the table and filled his glass more than was proper. He drank deep before continuing, "she had no right to speak as she did. Sansa is the wife of her liege lord's heir and Myrielle may soon be his good-daughter as well. At the least, she is his wife's niece." 

"Did you know my mother, Lord Lewys?" Jaime asked, his voice tight, but his hand gentle on her thigh. "It was said she was the only one to make my father smile." 

"She will apologize," he agreed, sighing heavily as he leaned back in his chair, "I myself apologize as well, to the Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion for my wife's outburst, and to Lady Myrielle. I did not know she treated you poorly." 

"She did not," Myrielle's voice was soft, but there were no tears in it. She looked toward Lord Lydden as she spoke, "Lady Margot was kind to me, she only wanted to insult Lady Sansa." 

"That is worse then," Sansa offered. "She should not have insulted you to hurt me." 

"It also raises a problem," Tyrion was refilling his wine again, "if she is so eager to reveal Lannister secrets just to hurt someone who did nothing to her, who else has she told them too." 

"I will speak with my lady wife, my Lords, please," Sansa watched the blood drain from the man's face. In King's Landing, this would have been an ordinary day in court. Queen Cersei had said worse. Joffrey had certainly done worse. Instead of brushing it off, Jaime had threatened the man with the power of House Lannister and Tyrion was building a conspiracy around the insult. She had not realized she was touching the rubies at her neck until her finger brushed the sharp point at the curl of the lion's mane. "she knows nothing of use. Margot is not involved in my correspondence with Lord Tywin." 

"We shall keep it so," his son agreed, "perhaps mother should be confined to the keep." 

"That seems sensible," the older lord agreed, "we have a septa still, she could sit with Margot as a companion." 

Sansa wanted no part in the conversation. While Tyrion and Jaime discussed what should be done with the Lady Lydden, Sansa ate the peppered boar and sweet yams in front of them. Eventually, their conversation turned to the running of the Westerlands, of the harvest, the armies, and politicking. Sansa was listening to Lord Lydden's singers playing "The Burning of the Ships" rather than paying any attention, when Myrielle's voice that called her back. 

"A pride so close to Oxcross? That is far from mountains," Tyrion was looking for his wine decanter, frowning at the table, but he looked up from his search. 

"We have a thousand mounted men to see us to Casterly Rock. Even if a lion came so far east it would not attack us," he settled for biting into his savory duck, "and it would not survive if it did. There is nothing to fear." 

Myrielle collected her skirts, "my pardon, my lords," she stood from her seat, folded her hands in front of her, and bowed ever so slightly, "I have lost my appetite. I beg your leave to return to my rooms." 

"Certainly," Tyrion looked pensive, but agreed readily, "you are welcome to go wherever you like, Lady Myrielle." 

"You have my thanks," she swept from the hall in her long golden skirts, never looking back. Sansa had not realized that leaving was an option given to her. Her mother had impressed upon her that it would be rude, and she had rarely done such in her father's hall. If she had tried to leave early in King's Landing, it was likely she would be dragged back with some white king's fist in her hair. Yet Myrielle was a cousin to Lord Tywin's children, not his daughter nor their wife.  

Sansa looked down the hall to find that the tables were mostly empty. In the argument at the high table and her distraction, it had grown late. She clutched the golden ring on her hand as she leaned close to her husband, "Jaime?" 

"Yes, sweet Sansa?" Jaime had been listening to Tyrion, but he looked down at her when she spoke. 

"I wish-" she wished she had said nothing, but it was too late for that, "might I retire to our rooms as well? I am very tired from our travels." 

"Lord Lewys, I fear I must excuse myself," Jaime announced, interrupting whatever the lord had been saying, "my wife is tired from the journey, and I wish to escort her to our rooms." 

"Certainly, certainly," Lord Lydden smiled brightly. Clearly the conversation had taken a turn for the better while Sansa was distracted, "will you break your fast with my family on the morrow, my Lord?" 

"If you wish. It will give the men time to tear down the camp." 

"I had expected you would spend several days with us," Lord Lydden phrased it as an offer rather than an expectation, "to let the Lady Sansa recuperate from the journey and refresh your horses." 

"We had intended to do so," Tyrion agreed mildly, "but I doubt Sansa would be able to relax in your lady's castle. She can recuperate in the morning, while Jaime and I break our fast with you, and then we shall go on to House Doggett. If we make good time through the pass it will be two days of travel, perhaps we shall spend a few days there." 

"It would be good for the horses to rest," Jaime agreed, as he stood to offer her his arm. Sansa did not have to be clever to understand the slight. She collected her skirts and accepted Jaime's hand to help her from her seat. He led her across the hall as if he had lived in Deep Den half his life, through the corridors and stairs, back into the quarters they had been given. Their rooms were on one side of the hall, linked by a connecting door. Tyrion had been given rooms on the other side. 

Ser Daven was outside her door again, and Sansa had not known she was afraid until she relaxed at the sight of him. Jaime had said he would no longer guard her in Casterly Rock, but until then she intended to keep him close. Sanda smiled honestly at him as they came up, hoping he understood her thanks. 

Jaime opened the door for her, "good night, Sansa." 

She paused in the doorway as she stepped inside. The room was dimly lit by candles, her handmaidens already retired to their own rooms, a bell at her bedside to summon them. On the side table, a little tray was set with wine and two glasses, Joy's doing, Sansa knew. Jaime still held the door, waiting to close it behind her, his green eyes glittering in the candlelight when she turned to look up at him. Even in this light, his hair was spun gold. 

"Would you care to join me, my Lord?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to skip the mountain passes and House Doggett, but I suspect some of you might want to stop at House Payne? I think we'll go Jaime, Winterfell, Tyrion, Dany, and then back to Sansa. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments! They're motivating, and I like being able to show more of characters my readers want to see.


	26. The Kingslayer IV

5/17/300

Sansa's skin was soft and smooth as she stretched against Jaime's side, edging further away as she squirmed to find a comfortable position. Jaime took the opportunity to free his arm from her weight, tucking it under the pillows to hide the stump. When she stilled, she lay facing him, legs tangled with his, red hair thrown across the white pillows. She had pulled the sheets against her chest, bundling them until she stole Jaime's as well. His chest was bare, and when her eyes danced over his body, with his missing hand hidden from sight, Jaime felt whole again. 

It was foolish, but a man could hardly help what he felt. 

"Is it true what Lady Lydden said?" It took him a moment to refocus, the soft heat of the bed and the flickering candlelight had drawn his thoughts away. The last time he had come to her bed had been many months before, before her pregnancy, and never before had she initiated a physical relationship. 

"Margot Lydden is a bitter woman," Tyrion was more suited to run the Rock, but Jaime had been Lord Tywin's heir once and he had not forgotten those lessons, "she was in her youth, and has only gotten worse with age." 

His little wife had large, sad eyes, "I did not think-" she curled tighter into herself, "will everyone be angry? I know your aunt married a Frey." 

"Some will be, but they have no right to blame you. You did not urge your brother to war, or betray your oath to your liege lord," he wanted to touch her wild red hair again, but resisted the urge. She often reminded him of a young filly, headshy and frightened, but eager to please, and no wild filly would appreciate the gesture, "Margot is not fond of Lord Lewys, or his son. She is his second wife and he had many sons before her." 

She had wanted to marry Edmure Tully, but his father had refused the match and arranged her another. When that husband died, she had tried to convince Edmure to elope, but Hoster Tully was not a man to be trifled with. Sansa did not need to know her uncle's sordid past. 

"And your aunt? She was not a second wife." 

"Genna never wanted to marry Emmon," in truth, Jaime expected her to be happy. Her sons had been named Lannisters and there was even talk of Tywin setting aside her marriage. Even if she was enough of a fool to blame Sansa, she would be more likely to celebrate with her than to scream, "and she is not a fool. She will not blame you. Any of my house would not dare to treat you as Margot Lydden did. I will send them away." 

"Will your father allow that?" 

"If he wishes to speak of it, I will send them to King's Landing so he may speak to them. I swore you would be safe, and so you will." 

"You are very kind, my Lord." 

Jaime scoffed, "you are my wife. Any actions taken against you are also against me." 

Blue eyes studied his face, as if she could see his lies written in words there, "what of the other claim? That Myrielle is..." 

"I am unsure. You might ask her on the morrow, if you wish to know," she had not denied it, and in this heat it was strange for her to wear such long sleeves. If he was asked to place lots, he would say Margot spoke the truth, knowing it would hurt worse than a lie. 

Sansa was silent for long enough that Jaime thought she might have fallen asleep. He was not yet tired, limbs languid from their coupling. Jaime did not want to wake her, but he did want the wine on the table behind him. When he finally moved, it was slowly, easing off the bed and taking care to keep quiet as he poured a glass. The flickering light made shadows dance in the room, and he considered snuffing them before he rejoined her. 

"Is the rest of your family fond of the Freys?" 

In the few moments of his absence, Sansa had stolen the remainder of the blankets. She was curled in the center of the bed, surrounded by a nest of them, looking for all the world like a pleased cat. He toyed with the idea that she had planned this, but it was more likely that he had woken her and she had taken advantage. He lifted the glass slightly, his meaning clear, answered while she thought, "you should ask Joy. She has spent more time there than I, in recent years." 

Jaime brought her wine rather than waiting for her decision, watched as she curled her fingers around it and stared into the deep red. He settled beside her, amused as the flush crept up her face, her eyes deliberately avoiding him. She had no right to be embarrassed by his nakedness, it was she who stole his blankets, "you will like Dorna, Kevan's wife. She loves needlework and flowers, and has a girl of three. She is Willem's mother." 

She would not like Myranda Lefford, but Jaime did not want to explain that this night. He had never seen Sansa this relaxed. Jaime half-suspected that Joy had given her a bit too much milk of the poppy, but it was good to see her without her armor. She had replaced her shield of propriety with the nest of blankets, and Jaime was unwilling to jar her from either. "Daven has a second sister, does she not?" 

"An elder sister to Myrielle, yes. Cerenna is twenty and two and betrothed to Willas Tyrell. She and her mother will leave for Highgarden soon after we arrive... I remember that she loved horses as a girl," it was not much to know. Myrielle had loved them as well, once, "Shiera Crakehall is there as well, wife to my cousin. Two of Genna's sons are married as well." Kevan's Lancel had almost been, but that discussion would raise too many questions. 

"Have they all been at Casterly Rock for many years?"  

"Jeyne Darry has two sons with Genna's eldest," he mused, "but Lyonel is a new knight. His wife is a Crakehall girl of six and ten, newly married." 

He wanted to ask of her family, but he doubted the question would be welcome. Her father and younger siblings were dead and she had been married to him on behalf of a Westerlands girl of minor birth. Many girls had been married off to secure wives for their brothers, but his father would not have married Cersei poorly even if he would have secured a princess for Jaime. He had not known the man, but he suspected that Eddard Stark would not have made this bargain.  

"What did Ser Kevan name his daughter?" 

Jaime could not resist the laugh that bubbled up, "nothing. Dorna named all of their children: Lancel and Janei were the names of a Lannister king and queen, Martyn is a name common in House Swyft, and Willem was the name of Dorna's late brother." 

Sansa drank hesitantly from the wine. She winced at the taste, and he wondered if she might like the sweeter, paler wines that his father favored. Above the white blankets she had curled into, he could see the pink line of a scar. He had made a conscious effort not to look at her bruises these last weeks, had taken great care not to hurt her during their coupling, but he was pleased to see that they faded. Jaime rarely prayed, save to the Warrior, but he would ask the Mother for mercy if it was for his sweet wife. 

"What will you name our son?"  

That gave Jaime pause. His heir could not carry a Northern name, not Eddard or Bran or Rickon, but he hesitated to deny Sansa any control over the child she must carry. "I had thought perhaps Jason, but I am undecided. If there is a Westerlands name you prefer, we might name him that." It sounded pathetic even to his own ears, "What would you name our daughter?" 

"I am to name her?" 

Jaime reached for her slowly. Sansa did not draw back, but she did close her eyes as his hand came near. When his touch was gentle, she looked back up through her eyelashes, "I cannot name my heir a Northern name, and I would like a girl named after my mother, but our second son you should name. And our first daughter." 

"Are we to have many children?" 

"If you like. You are very young, Sansa," too young, he thought, but it would be worse for her if he abandoned her bed. Tywin was not a man to take disobedience lightly. Jaime had seen what he would do to his son's wife, "my father insists we have a heir, but I am worried for you. I had thought you would like more children, in a few years, but if you do not I will not force them upon you." 

She sipped at her wine again, seeking strength from it, "I would like to have many children, I think. My mother had five." 

"With a Lannister for a husband, perhaps you will even have twins," not for the first, he hoped. Sansa was too young to give birth. Once they reached the Rock, he would find the most skilled midwives in Lannisport, and send for a maester experienced in birthing. Jaime meant to keep his wife.  

Sansa was quiet again. When she offered him her wine glass he set it aside, watched as she settled deeper into her nest of blankets, "Arya and Bran were like twins, at times. My septa said she should have been a boy and he a girl. Arya could ride and hold a sword, while Bran could not hit a target with a bow." 

Jaime thought of Cersei. As a girl she had loved horses, but hated the proper saddle for a lady. She had wanted to swordfight, to inherit the Rock herself. She had often lamented she had been born a woman, "any daughter of mine who wanted to wield a sword would be welcome to it. Let them protect themselves." 

"Perhaps I will name a girl for Arya, then," Sansa scooted closer to him, dragged along her nest of blankets, hesitated before touching him. Jaime set his own glass aside and curled his hand gently along her shoulder, his fingertips brushed the fine pink scar, and he tugged ever so slightly. Once Sansa was pressed against his chest, he stole a bit of her blanket for himself. 

Let the candles burn themselves out. 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really starting to enjoy this Jaime/Sansa relationship building. 
> 
> And I have my Dany chapter 90% done, so expect that on time too. I have decided to introduce a surprising POV later, before the five year gap, so look out for that in a few chapters.


	27. Mother of Dragons V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world, and when they see they shall lust. Could Daenerys trust anyone?

7/16/300

The sun's rays were only just appearing in the room at the top of the Great Pyramid. 

The voices that had woken her were low, but clearly irritated. She was curled into the softness of the down bed, but there was a warm body next to her. She thought it was Arianne at first, but the Dornish princess had wild hair and eager hands; the person next to her was propped against her pillows, grip gentle and measured. It was a moment before the events of the yesterday caught up with her. 

When Dany stirred, both her husband and handmaid fell silent. Drogon lay on the terrace, red eyes closed after the excitement of the night; Irri stood near the door, uncertain and angry; and Hizdahr zo Loraq was sprawled across her bed, looking down at her with a concern she could smell. She shook Drogon's senses from her mind and blinked sleepily at all three, "what is it?" 

"He asks for his slaves, khaleesi," Irri told her in the tongue of the Dothraki, "and he will not leave." 

"Where is he to go?" Dany answered in the Common Tongue, "he is my husband and has no rooms in the pyramid of yet." Then she lifted her head to look at Hizdahr expectantly. He had never stuck her a fool, and only a fool would bring slaves into her rooms. 

"My sister and an eunuch servant have come. Your servant will not let them in." 

"She is not my servant. She is my handmaiden, and her name is Irri," she looked back to Irri, "let me see them." 

Irri returned to the door and opened it to admit two people. One was a young man with dark eyes and skin, dressed in what once had been the style of slaves in Meereen. The other was a girl who looked much like Hizdahr himself. Her skin was the same shade as his, her eyes the same light brown, her wiry brown hair highlight with red, and she wore a green tokar with gold patterning. 

"You are Hizdahr's sister, are you not? He said you were his gift to me. Tell me, are you a willing gift?" 

"I am Meliqo Loraq, your Magnificence," the girl bowed in the style of the Meereenese, "among my people, it is a great honor to be made a wedding gift to a queen." 

"Meliqo is to swear before the Graces and yourself that she will never share your secrets, Radiance," Hizdahr had been smoothing his fingers across her back when she woke, but he was very still now, "if you wish, she can swear that she serves you willingly as well." 

"Very well," she looked to the young man that had entered with her, "and who are you?" 

"This one is Okal, your Magnificence." 

"I. I am Okal." 

"I am Okal, your Magnificence." 

"Speak truth, Okal. Do you wish to be here?"  

The eunuch hesitated, considered his words before he spoke, "the House of Loraq purchased me when I was a babe and educated me to read and write in half a dozen tongues. When you came, they freed me and I lived in the streets for many days. Then noble Hizdahr found me, offered me food and shelter and clothing in exchange for doing the work I had done before. I am given only a little gold, but I live better than many in Meereen on this day." 

"You pay him?" Hizdahr managed a smile when she looked up at him. 

"A token amount, as he says. He is paid in clothing and food and shelter, which many of your freedmen and former masters do not have." 

"How many freedmen did you hire?" 

"As many of my former slaves as would return and other skilled freedmen." 

Dany considered that. Her city was starving. Hizdahr had returned the trade of food, but without slaves to sell, many had no ability to purchase food. "Why did none of the other nobles do the same?" 

"Some did, but of the few that could some were too proud. Others did not have the money to do so." 

"Arianne has been collecting former merchants to craft a trade plan, but she says it could take months to implement. Meanwhile my people are dying. Can you arrange it so freedmen who work in their old positions are not harmed or sold? And find those who can...feed and clothe and shelter them?" 

"If that is what you wish, Radiance." 

"I wish my people to not die in the streets," Dany admitted, "I wish for Meereen to prosper, and not to become as Astapor and Yunkai. What do you need to do this?" 

"You. I will arrange all with the noblemen, but afterward your freedmen must hear the offer from you." 

"Your Grace," Missandei had entered unnoticed, standing behind the Ghiscari girl. Her gaze was not so harsh as Irri's; she looked scared instead, "the masters will not honor any terms you set forth. They will treat the freedmen as they did when they were slaves." 

Dany sat up, allowed the blankets to fall to her waist. While Irri hurried to fetch her robe, Dany asked, "what was the punishment for one master striking another master?" 

"The offender could have the same injury done to him," Meliqo answered, "or he could pay an amount of gold set by the Graces." 

"Then the punishment for striking a freedman shall be the same. The freedman shall say if the gold is to be allowed or not. If they cannot afford the gold, they must take the injury." 

"What if a freedman strikes the nobleman he works for?"Missandei asked. 

"It shall be the same, but because he cannot pay in gold, he may work off the amount if the noble agrees," Dany stood, letting Irri drape her robe about her, "the Graces shall set the amount of gold to be paid. If any man thinks the amount is too high or too low, they can petition me to change it. You will tell them?" 

"Every noble in the city shall know by week's end," Hizdahr promised. The single chest that had been brought into her rooms yesterday lay near her closet, and as she tied her robe Okal opened it and searched within. While Hizdahr dressed, Dany padded out to the table under the terrace, where Jhiqui had set out figs and dates, sausage and goat cheese, and sweetened wine mixed with the juice of a lime. 

She took a fig for herself, and a sausage for Drogon. The dragon had sharp, prominent teeth, but he was careful to be still while she tossed the meat into his maw. After he had swallowed it, he rubbed his head against her, and she scratched at the crest over his eyes. Irri and Jhiqui stepped around and over Drogon without so much as blinking, bolder even than Missandei, who poured wwine while standing over his tai. Hizdahr and the newcomers hung back, wary of the great dragon. 

Hizdahr had dressed in a tokar of green and gold, Okal still adjusting it about him, and it pleased Dany to see that even a man of Ghiscari birth needed help to wrap himself in a tokar. Her husband seemed to be considering the best way to skirt Drogon's bulk. Dany held out her hand to him, "come and see your good-son." 

Drogon turned his burning red eyes to stare at Hizdahr as he approached. Her noble husband came, but kept Dany between himself and the dragon's mouth, "I am husband to the Mother of Dragons," he tried to laugh, but it died in his throat. It was more a complaint than anything, but she laughed in his place, "Drogon will not harm you. He is mine and I am his, thus he is only a threat to those I wish threatened." 

Hizdahr did not look as though he believed her, but Drogon only sniffed at the Ghiscari. He huffed hot breath over both of them, then, with a sharp flap of his wings, lept to the roof of the pyramid. He climbed up to the highest point and curled himself there. When they had first come to the city, Drogon had claimed that place for his own. Not even wild Rhaegal lingered there now.  

Dany watched him go, then padded back to the table where Missandei poured her wine. Hizdahr's gaze lingered on Drogon before he followed. When he sat in the seat across from hers, she considered him carefully. Her husband was of the old blood of Meereen, a master, a tokar. She could not trust him. High above them, Drogon looked out across the city, his spirit confident and fierce, as he always was. If she had listened to his blood, she would have burned Meereen, yet he gave her strength. No one would dare challenge him. 

"Will you sit with me while I hear petitions?" The freedmen would not like it, but the masters did not like her judgements either. Let Hizdahr quiet them, was that not why she married him?  

"If that is your wish, Radiance," he had stolen one of her figs, and Dany took it back. When he blinked at her, she found herself smiling sharply over the fruit. Daario would have picked her up and taken her against the table, food scattered about the terrace, she thought, but Hizdahr was not that sort of man. He plucked the fruit from her grasp, bit into it, and returned her smirk. 

"What is your wish?" 

Hizdahr set the fig aside, ignoring her glower, and bit into a sausage, suddenly solemn "I have my wish." 

Dany could feel the flush against her skin when his eyes flickered over her, but pretended she could not, "anything I ask, you would do?" 

"Anything you wish, Radiance," he agreed. He looked unsettled at her smile. 

"Will you ride with me tonight?" 

"I am not a rider as the Dothraki are, but I was taught to sit a horse. I would be honored to ride with you." 

"Irri," she called, "bring the white tokar that Arianne altered." 

Her husband ate slowly while she dressed, Dothraki riding leathers under the silk tokar. This one had been cut so she could sit Drogon while wearing it, could walk, but the cuts were hidden in the fabric. A belt of delicate silver metalwork wrapped around her waist, freeing her of the need to hold the long fabric. The slippers Meliqo brought were made of the green-gray scales of a crocodile. The beasts could grow to the size of seven men, it was said, but these were made of the soft skin of a young one. The scales were miniscule compared to those of Drogon, but she liked the look of them.  

When she was dressed, then descended to her throne room, where Ser Barristan and Arianne waited, Viserion curled into Drogon's usual place. The boy called Aegon was there as well, standing to the side of Arianne's throne with a hand on his sword hilt, "my Queen," Arianne said as they stepped into the room, "there is a man to see you." 

"There are many men come to see me." 

"This one is a maester from Westeros," Ser Barristan said, "he would not leave until I swore to him that you would speak to him first this morning." 

"Send him in," she instructed, and sat on her throne. Arianne took the seat to her left, curling one leg under her to find a comfortable position. Hizdahr sat to her right, trying to mimic her own posture. When Viserion huffed, bored, he flinched sharply. Arianne laughed softly as he did. 

"She will not hurt you." 

Hizdahr's reply was interrupted by the man who entered. He was short and stout, with a square face and thick neck. He wore the robe and chain of a maester, although his was short, and if she would say he was near fifty. As he entered, he stared at Viserion, "it is true, then," his voice was no more than a rasp, "dragons, born again into the world." 

"If you like Viserion, you should see Drogon," Arianne said, but she was frowning, "have we met, Maester..." 

"Marwyn. Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel," his eyes did not leave Viserion, "we met when I visited your uncle in Sunspear, although you were only a girl then." 

"You have come on behalf of the Citadel, then?" Dany asked. Only then did the man look at her. He stared as if she were a fine wine, but not in the way most men stared. She felt as if he looked at her soul. 

"The Citadel?" His laugh was a sharp bark, "no. They would kill you and your dragons if they could. I have come to try and save them." 

"Kill them? What do you mean?" 

"They killed them last time, and they would again." 

"The dragons died in the Dance," Arianne asked a question, although her words did not. Beside her, the boy called Aegon shifted. 

"Not all of them. Four survived," the maester answered, "Rhaena's Morning, wild Silverwing and Cannibal, and Sheepstealer. The elder three vanished, Sheepstealer to Essos, Cannibal to Hightower, and Silverwing to poison-" 

"Poison?" Somewhere far above, Drogon snapped from his doze, his feet breaking off chunks of the pyramid as he took flight. Dany forced herself to breathe deeply, trying to calm herself before her son tore the pyramid to bits to reach her. 

"It is easy enough to do. A dragon will eat a sheep or cow near it's lair, and if the animal is meant to kill it, it does not know. Morning was small and stunted, although she was born healthy. Some say it was her separation from Rhaena that killed her, but it seems doubtful. Rhaena's other two hatchlings had heads no bigger than a mastiff's, and did not live long either." 

Men were screaming. Marwyn turned slowly as a snarl, deeper than any sound should be, sounded from the door. Her Unsullied pressed themselves against the walls as Drogon's head appeared around the corner. He turned slowly, his steps deliberate as he came up the hall. The black looked to Marwyn only for a moment before moving past to sniff at Dany. When he saw she was in no danger, he wrapped himself around her throne, around Aegon and Arianne, his head on the far size of Hizdahr. Viserion fled before him, ended up half on the stairs as she gave Drogon space to make himself comfortable.  

"My dragons are not small or stunted," and she fed Drogon carefully. Rhaegal might be in danger, but something could be done about that, "no one will _take_ my dragons." She had said it before. Now it would be better to say that no one would take her from Drogon.  

"Even if they tried," Marwyn stared at her son, "you have Balerion come again. Yet they might kill them in less direct ways." 

"A sheep," Dany echoed, "a cow. Is this why you have come? To warn me of the maesters who intend to kill my children?" 

"Yes, and more. I wish to serve as your maester, and to show that I would serve you well, I bring an offer of an alliance." 

"Not from your Citadel, I presume." 

"To House Hightower of the Hightower," from his robes, he withdrew a scroll. Ser Barristan fetched it for her, and she broke the seal carefully. The tower blazed even in the wax, but she was eager to read the words they had written. This was her first offer of fealty from Westeros, the first step in taking back the Seven Kingdoms. 

"What does it say?" Arianne had less patience than the rest, but even Ser Barristan watched eagerly.  

"Lord Leyton Hightower offers an alliance, for the sake of our blood," she read quickly, hoping for an explanation, but she only became more confused, "to stay the Long Night? What is this? How do I share blood with the Hightowers?" 

"Most closely, Leyton Hightower's first wife was Rhae Targaryen, daughter to King Maekar Targaryen. She was mother to Baelor, Malora, and Alerie. However, that is not what Leyton refers too," Dany had not heard of such a close link to her family in many years. Save the boy Aegon, if Aegon he was. Rhae's marriage would be known, there would be no doubt like there was with her nephew. Her children would be Dany's cousins, distant, but alive.  

"He speaks of the blood shared between the men who built Battle Isle and those who brought dragons to Valyria." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: back to King's Landing.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, guys! I really appreciate it, and it inspires me to write faster :-)


	28. The Old Lion V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was not Cersei's son, Tywin might have strangled him. He might anyway.

7/7/300

At the age of fourteen, Steffon Baratheon had cut the head off a man when his father had fallen in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. When Tywin had at last fallen from his horse, his desperate charge through the field had led him to Steffon. Together, they had cut through men and horse alike, had tried to protect each other, but had mostly tried to survive. After the battle, Steffon had lifted his father's body from the field and seen it back to Storm's End. He had married his betrothed and abandoned the life of a knight to rule the Stormlands.  

Knighted at twenty and one, Robert Baratheon had waged war against his king. While Rhaegar Targaryen was a tourney knight, Robert had squired for Jon Arryn; at the Battle of the Trident he had knocked the prince from his horse and scattered the rubies from his breastplate into the river. He had forbidden anyone to bury the dead prince, or so much as lift his body from the river. After taking the throne for his own, he had pardoned Kingsguard and Counselmen, great lords and small alike, and spared the realm further turmoil. 

With nothing more than a handsome face and a lord's title, Renly Baratheon had raised the Stormlands against his nephew, their rightful king, simply because he had felt that he would make a better ruler. Renly's loyalty had belonged to Joffrey, his brother's son, or to Stannis, if he believed his brother's lies of incest. Instead, he had forged an alliance with the Tyrells, he led armies across the realm with no more experience than a tourney knight. He might have overrun King's Landing if he had not been assassinated by his own brother, and that was not from lack of diplomacy on his part. 

Joffrey had none of his family's bravery or political sense. 

Martyn was only a year older than Joffrey, but already he held a sword like he had been born to it. He held his training sword steady and crouched behind his shield while the young king circled him. They had been doing so for several minutes, and Tywin was beginning to lose patience. Finally, with a shout, Joffrey charged forward and brought his sword down squarly on Martyn's shield. He made to dart backward, out of reach of his cousin's sword, but Martyn had not been still during the attack. The older boy slapped the wooden sword into Joffrey's side before he could scuttle out of reach. 

Had Martyn been training with any other squire, they would have separated to acknowledge the strike and then clashed again, only stopping the mock fight if the injury had been serious. His squired was used to this, and he lowered his shield and stepped to the side, away from Joffrey, only to be struck with his opponent's sword. The blow caught him across his left collarbone, knocking him backward and to the ground. A second blow was caught on his shield as Martyn raised it above his head.  

"Enough!" Ser Lyle blocked a third blow by catching the king's sword with his gloved hand. Joffrey pulled back angrily, but by then Tywin had crossed the yard to them and stood above his squire. Ignoring the king and knight bickering, he studied the pain on the boy's face. 

"Are you injured?" 

"It feels bad, but I don't think it is," Tywin reached down to help him up. The boys had not worn armor because they fought with wooden swords, but there was no blood. A hard strike directly on a bone would hurt, though.  

"Go to Maester Pycelle and have him examine you," Martyn had the makings of a promising knight, and he would not have his training delayed because an injury went untreated, "we are done training for the day." 

While Martyn handed his shield off to a friend and went toward the keep, Tywin turned to Joffrey. Ser Lyle had pulled the wooden sword from his grip and was now being screeched at, while Ser Osmund stood behind the king, failing to look fierce. Only now did Tywin register the words the young king was speaking, "-because it was a fight. I was only doing as my grandfathered ordered." He looked at Tywin as though he was the cause of the problems of the realm, rather than being the only one holding it together at present. 

"If you been held swords of steel that blow would have into your stomach and left you bleeding on the ground. You were meant to step back, not continue failing about." 

"If this were a battle-" 

"You would be dead."  

"This is stupid," Joffrey began removing the straps that tied his shield to his arm, "why do I need to learn how to fight a squire?" 

"Because the next time some lord rises up to take your throne, you will be expected to lead the army to defeat them." 

"I have men for that," Joffrey sneered up at him, "you said you were going to teach me how to rule, but it seems I know more than you." 

If Tywin ordered Joffrey arrested all of two men in the courtyard would have defended him. He threw his shield at Ser Lyle's feet and glowered at the man, seemingly unaware of Ser Balon's increasing nervousness. Perhaps he had been wrong to go about this as he had. Tywin had hoped the swordplay would tire Joffrey out and let him think about the more mundane problems. Instead, he might try teaching the boy to use his brain. Let him realize for himself why he needed to carry a sword. 

"Very well, I shall teach you to rule," he turned toward the keep, leaving Ser Balon and Ser Lyle to trail behind the angry king. Joffrey trotted at his heels, still whinging about the ill-fated fight and Martyn's lack of intelligence. Tywin did not have the patience to explain the difference between a training session and a true battle. Again. 

On their walk to the Tower of the Hand, Joffrey stopped twice. Once as they passed the entrance to the Red Keep, to demand Tywin tell him where they were going. The two Kingsguard stopped behind him, the Lannister guards parting to walk around them, and although Tywin did not bother to stop, but he briefly considered having the boy dragged to the tower. The second was on the steps. This time it was to complain to Ser Balon that there were far too many steps, and he did not want to walk up them. Once again, he continued on before Tywin could have him carried. 

In his solar, he selected one of the letters he had set aside, one that could not ruin the kingdom if handled incorrectly, and settled at his desk while Joffrey attempted to look important by strutting about the room. There were only Kingsguard and Lannister men in the room, none of whom he was impressing. Tywin waited until the boy had sat in the chair across from his desk, to look up. 

"Word has come that Lord Nestor Royce will soon require a new squire. To insure the lasting alliance between the Vale and the Crown, I have suggested sending someone close to your family." 

"Send Tommen. Might as well make some use of him." 

"Your brother will be Lord of the Stormlands, and he is already squiring for Jaime." 

"Then who is there?" Joffrey sighed and leaned forward, "why can't he find his own squire? Aren't their boys in the Vale who want to be knights?" 

"Many. However, none loyal to the Crown. This is a chance to place a loyalist in the Vale. I propose the youngest son of Tybolt Crakehall. The boy is near seven. He can be fostered for two years, serve as a page, and be made a squire upon his fourteenth nameday." 

"Fine. Why do I need to make these decisions?" 

"You said you wanted me to teach you to rule. I am doing so." 

"I need to name squires? Isn't there anything more important I can do?" 

"Insuring the loyalty of your kingdom is important, your Grace." 

"My kingdom is loyal!" Joffrey protested. The boy looked baffled, "My mother is a Lannister and my father a Baratheon, and I married a Tyrell of the Reach. Myrcella is marrying a Dornishman, Uncle Jaime married a Stark, and Petyr Baelish has secured the Vale. Where is the danger? You see treasons that are not there." 

"Yes, Robert was a Baratheon. So were Stannis and Renly, yet they still overran the city," it may be best to have Joffrey be a poor king, who sent men to do his own work, but he could not be both a terrible warrior and a terrible ruler. Not if he wanted to keep his crown.  

"And now they are dead." 

"Because I killed them." 

"They're still dead? There is no rebellion," Tywin was starting to understand why Tyrion was perpetually drunk in the Keep.  

"Petyr Baelish only has control over the Vale until Robert Arryn comes of age. Afterward he will return to Harrenhal and the only control we will have over the Vale is the loyalty of a Great Lord to his king." 

"Is that not enough?" 

"What if Robb Stark married his other sister to the young lord and rebelled again?" 

"We would kill Sansa Stark," Joffrey sounded more pleased at the prospect than Tywin would like. Was this the king in love with the wife of the Lord of Casterly Rock, or the burning of Rickard Stark? If Robert was Aegon the Unworthy, was Joffrey Mad Aerys? Two generations of Baratheon kings and the realm remembered the Targaryens fondly. "Here, grandfather, if you are worried, we should marry Myrcella to Robert Arryn. That would secure his loyalty." 

"Myrcella is betrothed to a son of Doran Martell." 

"I am the king, I can break the betrothal and have her brought back to King's Landing." 

Tywin took a deep breath. At least the boy was attempting to help, "that would be an insult to the Martells. The goal is to avoid another war. We would secure the Vale and raise Dorne instead." 

"Then find someone to marry the boy," Joffrey sighed heavily, "grandfather, is this not the work of the Hand of the King?" 

Cersei had only been gone for a week and already Tywin considered following her. Let Mace Tyrell rule the realm while Joffrey frightened the lords. In the war that followed Tywin could _hide under Casterly Rock,_  "what do you propose to do when I can no longer serve as Hand?" 

"Mace Tyrell can serve as Hand. Perhaps his son, or uncle Jaime. My father never made all these minor decisions. Jon Arryn did that, while my father held court and summoned whores to his bed," Joffrey stood from his chair. He was either the only person in the room who did not notice the tension, or he thought his position protected him. If he was not Cersei's son Tywin would have him cut down where he stood.  

"Your father was fierce in battle and merciful on the throne," he did not like praising Robert Baratheon, but he doubted Cersei had encouraged her son to like his father, "he was a drunkard and a whoremonger, yes, but he held court and sat in the Small Council. Jon Arryn might have made the minor decisions, but your father knew them all and knew when to reject a change. Under his rule, the realm had peace." 

"It is not my fault that Stannis Baratheon lied about my mother," Joffrey seemed to think he was threatening. If Tywin had been a man given to laughter he would have found it funny, but as it was he watched mildly as Joffrey blustered, "she is a good woman. She was loyal to my father while he had every whore in King's Landing. She did not deserve to be treated as she was, and it was you who sold her and never helped her." 

"Cersei knew what it meant to be wife to a king." 

Joffrey straightened, sneering, "and you should know what it means to be Hand to one." 

Tywin let him go. 

He had not made Joanna's daughter a queen to put another Mad King on the throne. Yet if he abandoned him now House Lannister's influence would be greatly diminished. The Tyrells were eager to fill King's Landing with their vassals, and although the Northmen would never forget Eddard Stark's death, Dorne might consider allying with Robert's son to crush the man who killed their princess.  

He would not leave.  

There were still letters to be written. The Lords Penrose and Estermont had returned his letters, and Tommen's betrothal was not a decision he wanted Joffrey to make. Both lords had young daughters who might draw the Stormlands back under Tommen's rule. Neither had unmarried sons, who Shireen Baratheon might marry to secure their loyalty to her. 

There was also the matter of the Riverlands. Edmure Tully was more intelligent in peace than in wartime, and had graciously offered his sister's son the surname of Whent, rather than taking it for his second son, as the boy would already have Harrenhal. It was a good plan if he wished to tempt Baelish's loyalties. Although Tywin had offered Kevan's oldest son to marry the female heir of House Darry, Edmure had refused, citing an established betrothal. Soon thereafter, the daughter of Mariya Darry had married Lewys Piper, a squire. Both had taken the name of Darry and her mother had been named his regent. Lancel had been forced to settle for Tarbeck Hall.  

Tywin never made decisions when he was angry. Instead, he focused on the more minor details of the kingdoms, things he had intended Joffrey to do, and worked his way back up. When he was finished with all of these, he might reconsider remaining in King's Landing, but that should wait until he could look at Joffrey without considering having him removed for insanity. 

He was still considering his reply to the Stormlords when a heavy glove knocked at the door, "Lord Tywin, the queen to see you." Tywin tucked the papers out of sight before admitting her. While he doubted she would tell Joffrey of his plans, she would tell her family. He did not need more Tyrells in King's Landing. 

Queen Margaery's stomach was just beginning to swell. She wore a gown of baby blue embroidered with gold, the Tyrell green belt raised to give her babe room to grow. When the door opened, she was speaking softly to her brother, and Loras waited outside as she entered. Her neckline was higher than it normally was, but she still wore the light styles of the Reach. 

"Queen Margaery, I trust you are well?" 

The little queen smiled timidly, "I am tired and hungry, always, but that is only the babe. He's started moving, only a few days ago. I believe he likes the harp." 

"The prince's safety is our utmost concern," and it was. That he had to guard the babe from it's father rather than rebel forces notwithstanding, "is there anything you need?" 

She sat in the chair Joffrey had occupied only hours before. "I have been given everything I asked for, and even some things I did not. My mother sent me the most wonderful doeskin slippers, I only wish they were white," she mused, "my son, though, he has need of you," Margaery lowered her voice and leaned forward slightly, one hand pressing over her belly, "Joffrey, it seems, does not." 

Tywin was quiet for a moment, not long enough to notice unless one was looking for it, but the little queen was. He had not thought the boy so great a fool as to insult him openly, "what has happened?" 

"He interrupted my lunch to join me and ask if my father might come to King's Landing." 

"What was your answer?" 

"Only the truth, my lord," Margaery looked for all the world an innocent young girl, "that my father must attend Willas' wedding as is proper, but he would come willingly afterward." 

"He will marry at the end of the year," Cerenna was soon to leave for Highgarden, at Jaime's insistence. It was claimed that Cerenna needed time to meet her betrothed, but Tywin suspected that her mother made Jaime's wife nervous rather than any concern for his cousin, "how does this concern your son?" 

Margaery's voice was low now, to ensure the guards outside could not hear, "my father is a good man, Lord Tywin. He is loyal to the throne, but he is not what the realm needs. My lord husband would overrun him with demands and he would obey them all. It would be war." 

"Against half the kingdoms," Tywin agreed. The girl told him nothing he did not know. That was why he could not leave. He had worked his entire life to put Cersei's sons on the throne, and he could not let that go now. 

"Only half? If he casts you out, will you do nothing? If the North rises, you might follow, with Lady Sansa married to your son. I have come to suggest we make common cause." 

"Against Joffrey." 

"For my babe. If Joffrey is killed, he will be too. You want a Lannister on the throne, and I want a Tyrell. Let us work together to see it done." 

Margaery Tyrell was the picture of a queen. Her thick brown hair was pulled up, hanging down her back in the style of the Reach. Her hands were folded in her lap innocently, her fair face touched by a sweet smile, and even her gown was cut to present a devout image. It was her eyes he was drawn too, as hard as steel. Tywin had seen Kingsguard with less determination than this girl of seven and ten.  

"You cannot be seen coming to the Tower," Joffrey would not suspect his queen was plotting against him, but the rest of King's Landing would.  

"Who can I send? Not my ladies, and every man knows my brother's squire." 

"I will send a girl to you. Shae. She was handmaiden to Lollys Stokeworth, and will carry any messages you see fit." 

"Any message? Can I trust her?" 

"She was well-paid; she is quick and quiet; and she cannot read." 

"And few would suspect her of carrying messages if she is seen," Margaery agreed. There were many other questions, but she asked none of them. His whore or his maid, she was clever enough to not want to know, "very well. Send her to me on the morrow, I will have her keep my rooms."  

She stood, brushing her skirts down gently and made for the door. As she stepped through, she turned back, "I do thank you for your generosity, Lord Tywin. Please, have the doeskin delivered to my rooms," with that the door closed behind her, and Tywin was left alone with new problems. 

Varys could bring the whore to him again, but where was he going to find white doeskin? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has everyone noticed the chapter number updates? We're going to 75! Hopefully not more, because I have a few open places for stretch. If I don't need more plot room we can have fluffy scenes.
> 
> Shoutout to aeb and Baelorfan for the awesome comments! I really love it when I get feedback and I got some in depth discussion and time skip feedback from them! 
> 
> Next Chapter: Cat reaches Winterfell.


	29. Lady Stark IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell lies in ruins, but the war is over and the Starks will rebuild.

7/3/300

Winterfell had burnt. 

The great walls still stood, unharmed, if blackened by fire, but once inside the damage was obvious. Delicate glass was shattered across what had once been the glass garden, and the fire had burned so hot that one side of the First Keep had fallen, revealing the burnt interior. Karstark and Bolton and Manderly men were rebuilding the Great Hall, but it was still clear that the roof had collapsed when the great beams burned. It seemed the guest house, guards tower, and armory had been more fortunate, but beams of wood were being installed even now. Storehouses could be rebuilt, but it would be difficult to find glass for the garden.  

 Bell Tower's bridge was now weak ropes strung across to the rookery, construction had clearly begun, but been halted. What once had been fine stables were now pitiful shelters inside a fence, to give the horses some small measure of relief from the weather. She came upon the sept last of all. It had obviously been burnt, but reconstructed. Catelyn drew up her horse to see the damage that had been repaired, irrationally angry that the North had left their great godswood untouched, but ruined the tiny sept. 

As she looked, the door opened, and a young woman exited the sept. She could have been any girl, with her head of chestnut curls and doe-brown eyes, but when Catelyn looked closer, the Stark crest on her cloak was clearly visible. Frail hands held her cream skirts off the muddy ground as she stepped out of the sept, and she did not look up to see the horses until Cat called her, "Jeyne." 

"Oh! Lady Catelyn!" As Cat dismounted, Jeyne hurried forward to meet her, "I am so very pleased to see you." 

"Where is Robb?" Men worked to rebuild the keep, but it was Jeyne Westerling who came to see her and not her own son. Perhaps Robb was out hunting, or seeing to the smallfolk. Behind her, Arya dismounted her mare, the fringe of her skirts covered with mud the moment her feet touched the ground. Unlike the Westerlands girl, she paid no attention to her dress. 

They would need to restart the brewing stations, and contact White Harbor for glass and food and supplies. Most of the household would need new clothes after the devastation, including new dresses for Arya. Perhaps a few fosterlings could be arranged from the higher houses, to bring some life to Winterfell, a girl too, if one could be found, to have lessons with Arya. Jeyne trotted behind her as Cat stormed toward the keep, "he is with Ygritte," 

That brought Catelyn up short, "who is Ygritte?" 

"In Robb's letters, the Wildling girl?" 

"She is still here?" 

Jeyne was baffled, "yes, she's carrying Robb's nephew." 

"Nephew? How?" Arya interrupted, but Cat ignored her. The less she knew of this the easier it would be when the child was sent away. 

"I told him to send her away. We cannot have a wildling in Winterfell," much less one carrying Jon Snow's child. A bastard's bastard, to threaten Robb's trueborn children. She had hoped that she had seen the last of him when he was sent to the Wall, "I will deal with her. Where is she?" 

"With Maester Medrick, her babe is coming," Robb had been a fool to let her stay this long. Now the damage was done, and it would be cruel to throw her and the babe into the snow. Cat said nothing more as she climbed the stairs in the Keep; Arya's insistent chatter and Jeyne's patient answers filled the silence in her place. 

Robb stood outside the rooms that had been Sansa's, voices coming from within. He looked as scared as if this were his own babe, and Jeyne within the room, but when he saw her his eyes lit up, "mother!"  

Her son hugged her, and for a moment Cat missed Ned all over again. When he pulled back, he looked behind her, to where Arya was dressed in her blue-grey dress, skirts muddy and smelling of horse. She threw herself at him, and the siblings embraced tightly. She waited until they parted to speak. 

"Much of Winterfell has fallen, it was one thing to read it in your letters, another to see the damage done." 

"It can be rebuilt," Robb promised, "I have men working even now." 

It was not the massive repairs that concerned Cat. Those could be finished before the worst of winter, "you have done well. But what is this? I told you to send the wildling away, and instead you give her your sister's rooms?" 

"Sansa now has rooms in Casterly Rock," her heart hurt everytime she thought of that. Her sweet Sansa was now a Lannister wife. At least the Kingslayer was preferable to the Imp, although they had the same concern for honor. Sansa would not share Lady Joanna's fate, "and Ygritte is not to stay long. Once she recovers from the birth she means to go North." 

"Then why did she come?" 

"Her babe will stay here." 

"I forbid it. You must think of your own children! Bastards are untrustworthy, and the bastard of a bastard? He may try to steal your father's seat." 

"Ygritte's son is not a bastard," Jeyne had said nothing through this conversation, but when Cat turned to her the younger woman did not look away. "She and Jon Snow married, as is tradition." 

"Jon has a wife?" Arya asked. 

"He has broken his vows," if this did not prove to Robb that a bastard could not be trusted, nothing would. 

"And that is the fault of his babe?" Jeyne was a girl of the Westerlands. She should understand the dangers of Ned's bastard's child so close to her own. Had they not had enough strife? Rumors still circled of how the Bolton bastard had murdered his trueborn brother, and the War of the Ninepenny Kings had been no rumor. 

"Jon's babe will stay here," Robb interrupted before an argument could begin. "I gave my word. A daughter will be married to one of our bannermen, and a son will serve House Stark as a knight." 

"You cannot have promised that. I am the Warden of the North," she had not been thrilled with the title, but she would use it to protect her family if she must. 

"And I am Lord Stark. If you order me to call my banners and march, I will, but you have no authority to decide who I keep in my castle. Father could not have made Roose Bolton cast out his bastard, and you cannot force me to set Jon's babe out of Winterfell." 

Robb was only a boy. He did not know what he was doing, what the people would think. Half would say that the boy was his bastard, the other half would think Robb a fool. All would be angry that he was mothered by a wildling. She needed to explain this, to help Robb understand, but her son's jaw was set in a way that reminded her of many years ago, when Ned had told her that Jon Snow would stay in Winterfell. 

"You have only just returned, mother. Let us talk of more pleasant things, please. How was Uncle Edmure's wedding?" 

"The wedding went well, although the betrothal did not. Lords Jonos and Tytos came to blows, the great fools," the Blackfish had stepped between them before swords could be drawn, but that had ended all discussion of a Blackwood or Bracken marriage to Edmure, "no harm was done, but Edmure made each of them send the other a child. Hoster Blackwood now serves as Lord Jonos' squire and Jayne Bracken as Lady Blackwood's handmaiden. I think Brynden means to make marriages between them." 

"It should keep them from warring, at least. What did you think of the wedding?" 

"Beautiful," it had been what Cat had expected her own wedding to be, if it had not come in time of war. "It was held at Riverrun, and Emphyria made a lovely bride. She was set up as Lady of Riverrun when I left, had already secured the love and loyalty of the smallfolk." 

Which was better than Robb's own bride. By all accounts, she seemed frightened of the cold and snow and refused to leave the castle. After recovering from losing the babe she carried, Robb said Jeyne had made an effort to be outside more, and had even visited the godswood. This was likely her mother's doing, as the girl herself seemed too timid to want to leave her rooms and handmaidens. 

"If Lord Tywin had not taken it upon himself to arrange a betrothal for Edmure's heir, I might have offered one of my own daughters," Robb mused, "you seemed very fond of the Riverlands, mother." 

"I was born there, as were you," Catelyn could not be angry with her son for long, not after having missed him these many months. "Robb, you once meant to legitimize Jon Snow, and I advised you against it-" 

"And now I am not a king and cannot legitimize anyone. But I am still the Lord of Winterfell, and Jon's babe will be raised in Winterfell." 

Catelyn would go to the sept later, but now she prayed to the Mother to be merciful, to give the wildling a daughter and not a son, "think of your wife. You would shame her?" 

"Jeyne, are you shamed by my brother's son?" Delicate like a doe, dressed in the silks of the south, Jeyne looked every bit the southron lady. Westerlings were of the Westerlands, and she should be, but Jeyne was a gentle woman, "I will raise Ygritte's babe with my own. If they are as siblings, they will not betray each other for a holding." 

As Robb had betrayed the Freys, but Catelyn had the sense not to say that. Instead, she asked, "and what does your mother think of it?" 

"She would have turned Ygritte away from Winterfell the moment she came to the gates, but I am not my mother. I trust Robb, and Ygritte has been a friend to me." 

She would not win this battle, Cat could see that now. It was tempting to press on, but before she could decide, Arya spoke, "Jon has a wife? He swore to the Night's Watch!" 

"The way Ygritte tells it, he had no choice," Jeyne said, "but she says they were married and that is enough for her son to not be named a bastard." 

"If Robb says the child is not to be a bastard," it was no proof of anything, but Robb ruled the North and he could do as he pleased. If he said a child of uncertain birth was not a bastard, then he was not a bastard. The Northerners were strange, the child of Ned Stark's bastard would be accepted as trueborn and welcomed among the Starks. In the south it would not be so. 

"Will I get a new swordsmanship teacher?" 

"No. You must learn to be a proper lady." Ned had let Arya run wild when she was a girl, but she was older now. Without Sansa to marry and secure alliances, Arya must take her place. Catelyn could send for a septa, but as Jeyne now served as the Lady of Winterfell, perhaps she would teach Arya herself, "look at you, your skirts are muddy and your hair is a mess." 

"If father had not let Syrio teach me, I would have died in the Riverlands," Arya argued. She had been tame enough at Riverrun, dressing in the style of the ladies of the Riverlands and offering little complaint. Once they had started North, she had grown more irritable, asking to wear men's clothing and often racing the squires in the evenings. Catelyn had tried to forget her daughter's adventures once she had assured herself that Arya was still a maiden and unharmed. "I would have died many times over. I almost did anyway." 

"If you attend your lessons in the mornings," Robb began, "you may train with my own squire in the evenings, but only if you do well in both. Is that fair?" 

Arya smiled at that, one of the few true smiles Cat had seen from her in a long time, "can I go and look at the castle?" 

"Yes, but stay away from the men who are working," Robb allowed, "some of the structures are still unstable." 

Arya ran back down the hall, but Robb smiled apologetically at Catelyn, "she is right, you know. It was only what little skill she had and luck that kept her alive." 

"In wartime. That will never happen again within her lifetime," Robb looked to Jeyne, who turned aside to Sansa's rooms. Catelyn remembered the Mormont women, in their armor and leather, and wondered if Arya would be the same. The image of her little girl riding to war was not one she wanted. 

"I will see if I can help Ygritte." Once the door was closed behind her, Robb lowered his voice. 

"There were some things I could not tell you by raven, mother," Catelyn resisted the urge to cry, but she could feel the tears forming. Her family was in ruins, her sons dead, her daughter sold to the Lannisters, and still she could not rest. She wanted to go back to being the lady wife of a great lord, of caring for her castle and daughters. Winter had been her greatest worry, what kept her to late hours, and she might cry from relief if that was true again. 

"What have you done? We swore to King Joffrey, we gave our word." 

"I will never march south again, I promise you, but Joffrey murdered our father. Murdered him because he was a bastard and father knew, if Stannis is to be believed. We cannot let him get away with this, mother," she had spent her weeks in Riverrun being brave, thought of returning to her home and rebuilding, of the past fading. Robb did not seem to realize the cost of this war, "the North Remembers." 

"Do they remember signing a pact?" 

"Many of the houses are still angry. They murdered father, stole Sansa; many castles and keeps are in ruins. The Boltons are upset about the Freys, Roose was to marry one of Lord Walder's daughters." 

"The damage was caused by the Ironborn. Not the Lannisters. Robb, they have Sansa. They did not steal her, _you married her to them to end the war._ They will kill your sister. Tywin will _kill_ Sansa. Do you want your sister to die?" Her sweet, brave, loyal daughter. Sansa had submitted to the marriage and done her best to bear the Kingslayer a son. She had not sent one word of complaint in her letters, but between the cruelty of the Baratheon king and her own brother's foolishness she was still in danger. 

"They will not kill Sansa, because the North will not march on them. I will remain in Winterfell, as will all my family." 

"Robb, this is not the time to play with your oath. If you wanted to continue to fight, you should never have signed their pact. Stannis killed Renly, we killed Stannis, there is no one left to ally with." Robb said nothing. The dread that Catelyn had felt at the beginning of this discussion was worse now, a chill creeping up her spine as she realized the implication of his silence. "You swore, Robb. Your father would not have gone back on his word." 

"Father swore loyalty to King Aerys, mother, and then he seated Robert Baratheon on the throne." 

"Because the king murdered his father and brother!" Again Robb said nothing, and Catelyn felt helpless. The title of Warden of the North meant nothing if no one would listen to her, and what Northerner would follow a Southron lady in peacetime when they had a Lord Stark to lead them to vengeance?"Does your sister's life mean so little to you?" 

"The Lannisters will not kill Sansa, I swear it." 

"You also swore-" 

"Lord Stark?" Both turned to the midwife, the tension in the corridor broken as the door opened. Robb straightened quickly, looking every bit a lord, "the babe is here. Lady Jeyne asks for you." 

 Robb's smile was that of a boy, not a lord. She looked, but she could not see Ned in it. There was none of Ned's look in Robb's blue eyes or auburn hair, and none of his honor in his son's face. Not for the first time she cursed Jon Snow's Stark looks, missing in all of her sons, "come mother, and see my nephew." 

Catelyn wanted to go to the sept and pray. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue Jaws theme?
> 
> Again, thank you so much for the comments! I even got some replies to my replies! They make me want to write more, which has led to me having the next chapter done already!
> 
> I also finally worked out Joy's plotline, and the plot for 4/5 of the older Sand Snakes.
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa!


	30. Lady Lannister VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men fear lions in the mountains, but the road itself hurts Sansa.

5/19/300

Myrielle was a quiet soul.

That much had been obvious in the early morning, when she had lifted her golden skirts and delicately padded across the yard, skirting wide around the tame mares harnessed to the wheelhouse and the mounted men waiting in the courtyard. Sansa followed, after bidding Lord Lydden and his elder son goodbye. While Myrielle closed the windows and Jeyne curled up by Sansa's feet, Joy insured that she was as comfortable as could be managed on the increasingly rocky road. 

Without Tommen to entertain, they traveled in silence for a long while. Joy and Sansa chose to read, although Joy eagerly perused an archaic tome with failing stitching while Sansa tried to focus on a listing of Casterly Rock's holdings through the jolting of the road. Jeyne curled herself against the far end of Sansa's seat and opened the window to watch the road pass by, and Sansa was never certain if she was asleep or awake. Of them all, Myrielle kept the most interesting pastime. She had brought a psaltery with her, and in her corner she played it with her ruined hand. Sansa had never heard the instrument sound so beautiful. 

She played nothing particular for a long while, experimented with notes and varied sound, before beginning a song Sansa had never heard before. Myrielle paused and played again, started and restarted, some notes worse than others and some better. After many attempts, her playing began to merge into a true song. Only once she heard the progress did Sansa realize she was making up the music as she went. 

The beautiful playing was distracting, and when Sansa had read as much as she felt she could remember, she gently sat her parchment aside and addressed her new companion, "Lady Myrielle, you play beautifully. Have you learned anything else?" 

"My sister Cerenna plays the rebec and viol, but I cannot hold a stringed instrument properly," she reminded Sansa of the queen, although she did not know how. Myrielle was short and soft spoken, timid and tame, while Cersei was none of those things. Perhaps it was only her long, golden hair?  

"Ah, I leant the harp and recorder, but I could not play the psaltery," Sansa admitted. She hoped she might coax some of the elder girl's secrets out with her own honesty. Myrielle had been silent since dawn, spoke little and kept to herself, her pale dress and demure demeanor insuring that most overlooked her, "has a handmaiden been arranged for you?" 

"The letter Lord Tywin sent said that Roslin Rosby would await me at Casterly Rock. I expect I can manage until we arrive," she looked out her window, or she would have, if it were not closed. It was entirely too warm for Sansa, she could not imagine how Myrielle felt, with her long sleeves, but the older girl had made no move to open her window, "it is two days through the mountains, and the second night we should reach House Doggett. I imagine we will also stay with House Payne, and reach the Rock the day afterward, shortly after sunhigh." 

"Lord Tyrion has requested that I aid you, Lady Myrielle," Joy said, "your tent is to be near Sansa's, it will not be difficult. That is, if Sansa does not mind?" 

Sansa smiled, "I do not mind, in truth, I am glad that Lady Myrielle will not be alone. Roslin Rosby, you said, did you mean Roslin Frey? Your brother mentioned she was being sent to Casterly Rock." 

"When Lord Tully disbanded House Frey, Frey daughters and young boys took their mother's names and returned to their mother's houses. Roslin's mother was a daughter of Lord Rosby's brother, and so she has taken that name," Myrielle studied her for a long moment, green eyes solemn, "I did not know Lord Jaime was so fond of you." 

"Oh. I- I do not think he is. Forgive me, Lady Myrielle, but he did not marry me by his own choice." 

"Lord Tywin's heir would not wed a woman he did not want to wed," another difference, Myrielle's face showed no emotion as she spoke and her words were kind. Smile or scowl, Cersei's words were as sharp as her emotions, "and he has spoken for you. Lady Roslin was to be your handmaiden, traded for Joy, but he knew you would not want that and instead asked me to take her. There is also Lord Lewys' son." 

Jaime had been right. Sansa would not have wanted to let Joy go for a Frey, "his son?" 

The elder girl's head tilted ever so slightly, "Lord Lewys' youngest son is of an age with Prince Tommen. He was meant to accompany the prince to Casterly Rock, and serve as Lord Jaime's page beside him. Because of the insult the Lyddens gave to you, the boy was left at Deep Den." 

Sansa did not know what to say to that, but Myrielle had no intent to fill the silence. The stillness grew between them, until Joy broke in, "it would be foolish for any Lydden to expect to foster at Casterly Rock after what was said." 

Joy's eyes were lighter than her cousin's and flecked with gold, reminding Sansa more of Tyrion's green eye than the emerald green that belonged to Jaime and his sister. That had been the first thing she noticed about the other girl, her disdain of eye contact aside, the eyes that looked so much like Jaime's own. _You look like my lady mother,_  Jaime had said. Were these Lady Joanna's eyes? Or had hers been bright and curious, as Joy's were? 

Whatever Myrielle might have said was interrupted by a sharp jolt. Sansa bit back her yelp as her parchment went flying, only her instinctive grip on the back of the seat keeping her from falling. Jeyne was unseated by both the jolt and it's effect on Sansa, and she slipped from her seat with a squeak, her pale blue skirts thrown across the floor. Myrielle clutched her psaltery and moved with the jerk of the wheelhouse, rolling forward onto the balls of her feet, still crouched, and sat back down as the wheels straightened again. Joy had the worst of it, but even when her head struck the wood of the wall to her right she did not lose her grip on her book. 

As the floor settled beneath their feet, Ser Daven's voice came from outside, "Myrielle? Lady Sansa? Are you hurt?" 

"No," Myrielle answered for them, considering Sansa carefully, "we are fine, Daven." 

"If the road becomes too much, we will stop," he answered, but Myrielle made no reply. Instead, she offered one hand to Jeyne, who stared up at her like a frightened foal before gingerly taking the offered aid. Myrielle's grip tightened, and she pulled the younger girl to her feet. 

"Are you hurt?" The question was directed to all of them, it seemed, but it was Joy who answered. 

"No. I just did not expect that." 

Myrielle had opened the chest behind her seat, gently cushioning her psaltery among the silks there. She returned with a little box in her hand, which she offered to Joy. The younger girl smiled widely as she accepted it, turning it on end to pour out the cards contained within, "do they play alouette in the North?" 

"Mother said that gambling was not a suitable game for a highborn woman," Sansa admitted, although Jeyne said nothing.  

"Then we will not gamble," Myrielle said, as Joy shuffled the cards swiftly. The wheelhouse jolted again, although not as sharply as the first time. Sansa hoped for their sake that the driver was being careful.  

"I will teach you to play," Joy handed out the cards, nine to each of them, and tucked the remaining cards under her leg, into the folds of her dress, "Myrielle will play a card because she is to my left, then we will all try to play a card higher than hers." 

Myrielle played a Jack of Swords, and after some deliberation, Sansa played a lower card instead of the Jack of Coins in her hand. It was Jeyne who won, with a queen, and both of the Lannister girls passed her their cards, "yours as well, Sansa. The person with the highest card wins the trick. Now Jeyne gets to go first." 

"What happens if we tie?" Sansa asked. 

"We play again, and whoever wins the next trick wins that one as well," Joy replied, and so they went on. Sansa won twice, but Myrielle won the hand. Once they were done, Jeyne nudged Sansa's leg and gave her a curious look, and Sansa spoke for her. 

"Let's play again."  

They did, and again after that, and before Sansa had noticed the passing of the day, Joy was drawing out flatbread, white cheese with green olives, and watered sweet plum wine. It was not as strong as that in King's Landing, but the water also affected the cloying sweetness and Sansa drank it gladly. She had seen Joy slip a bit of milk of the poppy from the vial Maester Pycelle had given her into hers, and she hoped it would help with the growing pain from the jolting road.  

Jeyne was nibbling on a bit of cheese and considering her cards, but Sansa set her own aside and ate eagerly. She had not enjoyed the morning meal and now she was hungry. As the games had gone on, Sansa had won fewer hands, and Jeyne more. For a while she had only compared herself to Joy's tricks, until Joy insisted they form teams so she and Sansa might win too.  

The pain faded a bit, but every bump hurt now, and Sansa ate less than she might like. Joy bundled the food away again, Myrielle keeping a few olives to herself. She popped one into her mouth as Jeyne started a new hand, and was only just swallowing when the wheelhouse rolled again. Sansa grit her teeth against the pain, asked, "will the road be this harsh all day?" 

"This day and the next," Myrielle answered, "it's the mountains. There will be more guards until we are out of the mountains too." 

"More guards?" Jeyne peered over the top of her cards at the elder girl. 

"For the lions," Joy said, when Myrielle did not respond, "there are still many in the mountains. I saw one, once. It was a beautiful creature." 

"Do they really have such manes?" Sansa had seen drawings of lions, but they seemed unreal. No other creature had hair like a human, but circled around it's entire head. She could almost believe that they were simply cats writ large, but she did not know how any man would imagine such a mane. 

"Only the males. There are paintings of them in Casterly Rock, you should ask Lord Tyrion to show you once we arrive." 

"My septa once told me that they kept lions under Casterly Rock, once." 

"They did, when Lord Tywin's father was alive, but not anymore," Joy brushed her green skirts down, a sad smile pulling at her lips, "I would have loved to see them." 

Another twist of the wheelhouse, but this time Sansa could not stop the yelp that escaped her. Joy stood on the rocking floor, hurried to her side and tried to adjust the pillows that cushioned her from the worst of the movement. Jeyne tucked herself closer to the window, eyes wide, hands playing nervously with the cards as she watched. It was Myrielle who concerned Sansa the most, her dark eyes searched her face as Sansa struggled to right herself and calm her breathing. 

"Daven," she called, voice louder than Sansa had ever heard her yet, clear even above the creaking of the wheelhouse, "call a stop. Ask for Lord Tyrion." 

"No," _I am a Stark of Winterfell,_  "Jaime," Sansa said. The words made it the command her tone avoided, "bring me Jaime." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments! I'm so far ahead in writing, I've even been jotting down ideas for the sequel! 
> 
> I finally pinned down our Vale chapter, and it's around chapter 52 but I'm really looking forward to it! I also worked through Oberyn's KL plotline, Dorne is starting to come together!
> 
> Next Chapter: Jaime


	31. Kingslayer V

5/21/300

Sansa sat a horse like she had been born to it. 

When Daven had summoned him to find a pained Sansa struggling out of the wheelhouse he had lifted her from the stairs and ordered the men to set up camp. It was only a few hours after sunhigh, but not a man complained – unless he counted Tyrion's smirk. There were fewer dangers here, at the edge of the mountains, and although they would not reach the safety of a castle tomorrow evening, they would be out of the worst of the mountains. 

At Myrielle's behest, Tyrion had sent a rider back to Deep Den, and come morning there was a palfrey in camp, sent with a beautifully crafted lady's saddle. Jaime had examined the gift while Sansa broke her fast, impressed with Lord Lewys' choice. The mare was of Reach stock and well-trained, with intelligent eyes, deep hips, and long shoulders. Her conformation promised a smooth, comfortable gait that she could maintain for a fair distance. 

His lady wife looked for none of that, but Jaime would be lying if he said he had not noticed the mare's beauty. Her coat was the color of burnt gold, complimented by a white mane and tail. Sansa admired her large eyes and pet the stripe on her face; sheepishly admitted that she was a poor rider, and swung into the saddle as though she had lived there once, long before her time in King's Landing. Sansa arranged her red silk skirts about herself and urged the mare into her foxtrot at Jaime's request, settled into the saddle, and tested out the gait until Tyrion returned, having readied the camp. 

Now, as they approached House Payne's castle, Sansa's golden mare kept pace along his own white destrier. Had they been approaching King's Landing, Jaime would have had the men close ranks as they came to the farms on the outskirts of the city, but these were the Westerlands. Their father had intentionally sent men who could be quickly recalled if needed, and many of them called Lannisport home. Among the men, the mood was lighter now, eager to return to their families.  

As they passed the farms outside of the castle, people crowded the side of the road. Young boys clustered together to stare at the knights; their sisters whispered among themselves as Sansa passed, and pointed to the red of her hair. Those who came closer had other motives, beggars and cripples, men with their sons on their shoulders to see the procession, women with babes in their arms, hoping for coin. Tyrion gladly threw coins to any who came near to him, but Jaime preferred to ignore them. The same people who begged for coins now would call him a traitor the moment they had passed. 

Jaime rode close to Sansa as the farms turned into a village. One man, on crutches and with white hair, muttered a bit too loudly about _wolves_ and _death_ as they came near, and although no one was foolish enough to threaten Sansa, it did not mean they would love her. Most were far too busy with their work or with jostling for a position near Tyrion's path to pay any attention to Robb Stark's sister. Had they been farther North, it would not be so. 

One of the women avoided the beggars and stepped into the road, a babe in her arms and another child by her side. Her clothes were rags, she wore no shoes, and she looked hungry and tired. A man rode forward to move her from the road, but before he could reach her, she called out, "my husband died at Oxcross, and his brother cast his family from his lands. I cannot feed them, we sleep on the roads. Their father served you well, must his family starve?" 

The knight reached down to pull her from the path of their horses, but before he could, Sansa urged her palfrey forward, ahead of them, to reach the woman. His wife clutched her mare's mane as she leaned down to speak to the woman, "how old are they?" 

The Lannister knight who had meant to move them pulled up short, reigning his horse in beside Sansa's to allow her to handle the woman. Jaime left Tyrion to distract the beggars and followed Daven to his wife's side. As he came close, Sansa pushed herself straight in her saddle again, obviously pained from the effort, and looked up at him, "can a place be found for her? As a maid or cook? At least for her children?" 

"You are the Lady of Casterly Rock in all but name," Daven told her from atop his dark bay destrier, "if you wish for her to have a place and one cannot be found, one will be made. Certainly House Payne could use a maid of some sort, to cook or carry water or make beds. The girl can work with her mother in a few years, and if they do well perhaps the boy could be a page." 

Jaime could feel the eyes on them. Their arrival had brought brief attention, but now even the workers had paused to see what his Stark would do. This woman claimed her husband had fought against Stark men, and his lady wife was demonstrating her loyalty to her new house by favoring her. It would do more for her position in their hearts than if she bore him half a hundred sons.  

"Escort her to the castle," he spoke to the knight who had ventured out first, "I will speak to Lord Owyn and have work arranged." 

"Her name is Lonna," Sansa added, "and she cannot walk all that way." 

"I will walk," Lonna looked to Sansa as she spoke, "if there will be work and food for me, I will go there." 

Sansa fumbled in her saddlebags until she found what remained from her lunch. They had eaten with the men a few hours ago, and she brought out bread and cheese wrapped in a napkin, offering it to the woman, "I have this, but it is only a little." 

Lonna tore chunks off the bread and gave them to her children, "it is more than I have seen in many days," she bit into the bread, chewing quickly, "thank you, m'lady." 

It took Jaime and Daven to convince Sansa to ride on, leaving the knight to guard the woman. Now Daven took the place Tyrion had left at Sansa's right side, keeping her between their horses. He did not like having lost sight of Tyrion, but his brother's sellsword was missing as well, thus he assumed he was safe enough. It seemed King's Landing had made him paranoid.  

Near the castle, they met Lord Owyn's oldest son, Olyver, come to greet them, "Lord Jaime! We looked for you since sunhigh. The raven from Lord Byd arrived before the sun and we were unsure of when you left their castle. My father has a feast prepared and my lady mother is eager to meet your new wife. Will you honor us with your presence?" 

The sun was soon to fade and both knew that Jaime had no intention of riding past the shelter of a castle and a warm meal. Nevertheless, it was good to know that at least some lords of the Westerlands had not forgotten to whom they owed their allegiance, "Ser Olyver, this is Lady Sansa, my wife and Ser Daven, my cousin by my lady mother. Tyrion is somewhere among the men, with your cousin in tow." 

"My cousin?" 

"Distantly, but close enough to carry the name. A boy called Podrick Payne, he squired for your father's cousin Cedric before his death?" Jaime did not know how the boy was connected to the main line, but the dead knight's claim was closer. 

"My father will know him, although I admit that I do not," Olyver bowed as well as he could in his saddle, "Lady Sansa, I am honored to meet you. We were told the Lady Myrielle and Prince Tommen would accompany you as well?" 

"My sister is in the wheelhouse," Daven said from Sansa's other side, "she does not ride." 

"And our prince keeps her company," Jaime agreed. The courthouse of the castle belonging to House Payne had no great walls or magnificent doors, but it was large enough for the wheelhouse and it's escort of men to enter easily. Lord Owyn and two of his four younger sons awaited them, with his lady wife and her handmaidens watching eagerly as the wheelhouse stopped.  

Jaime left his mare to Willem and helped Sansa from her saddle, gently setting her on the ground. Lady Payne was across the yard before her husband was down the steps, and she smiled warmly at Sansa, "my lady," she curtseyed low, "I am Lady Hanna Payne, and I am honored to meet you." 

Sansa blinked at her, took in her grey hair and fine blue dress, spoke before she could process the invitation, "well met, Lady Payne." 

"Please, call me Hanna. My husband has prepared a feast for dinner, but I thought you might like to visit your rooms first?" 

"That would be lovely," Sansa agreed. Jaime left her and Myrielle in the capable hands of Lady Hanna and met Lord Owyn in the yard. The greetings and manner of the Westerlands had been trained into him from boyhood, and they served well now.  

"Lord Owyn, it is good to see you again!" 

"It is always good to see one's bannermen when you have not been forced to call them," Owyn was an old man, his hair fading to white, but his laugh was still loud and jolly, "we feared for you after you vanished from Riverrun. To hear the Young Wolf had caught you..." 

He trailed off, although it was likely more for Sansa's sake than out of deferment to Jaime, "yes, I recall you warning me not to ride with so few men. I often did while I was in chains. It is good to be home." 

"My Hanna was worried you might ride past, hoping to reach the Rock," Owyn laughed, "she wanted to meet your lady wife so much that she made Olyver ride out to meet you. I told her it was too late for that, moreso with these lions about, but the roads themselves are dangerous at night." 

"You have heard of the lions as well?" Tyrion was still missing, but Owyn had prepared well. His own men were helping set up tents and carrying firewood from their stores. His wife ushered Sansa and Myrielle inside, the little Northern girl scurrying along behind them. Joy had taken over the unloading of several trunks from the wheelhouse, and thus Jaime was left to worry over his brother rather than organzing the men. 

"I have heard _of_  lions," Lord Owyn said, "I have not seen lions, or heard lions, and I half suspect these 'lions' are some lord's hounds gone a bit too far from their master. I added a few guards nearer the mountains and do not lose sleep over creatures that are but fables this far west." 

"Lord Dugald was quite convinced." 

"House Doggett is nearer the mountains than we are. Perhaps they have seen lions, but we have not," he nodded toward the entrance with a wide grin, "well, aside from that one." 

Tyrion had gathered a following of several knights bearing the Payne sigil, in addition to his own squire. They were laughing as they came up, and Jaime suspected that Tyrion's purse had become far lighter when he clambered down from his bay. The further they traveled into the Westerlands, the warmer their welcome became, and Lord Owyn laughed at his brother came up the stairs. 

"Lord Tyrion! I heard that you had worse luck with Blackwater than on the Green Fork!" 

"Far worse," Tyrion agreed, "I only lost a few hours on the Green Fork, and half a nose at Blackwater." 

Not for the first time, Jaime appreciated his brother. He knew that Tyrion had expected to inherit the Rock and had every reason to be angry, but instead he comforted his brother's wife and helped drag a prince across the Westerlands. Perhaps a marriage between Sansa's son and Myrielle's daughter could be arranged? Their father would never approve, but neither would he live forever. One day, Jaime would be the Lord of Casterly Rock and he could decide who his children would marry.  

Who Sansa's children would marry, at least. The others had already been decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great comments, guys! I'm starting to love it when you're trying to figure out my plot :-)
> 
> Next Chapter: Arianne


	32. Kingmaker II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys' children have free reign over Meereen, but some are wilder than others.

8/28/300

Overheard, the roar of a dragon could be heard. 

Although Rhaegal could not be seen through the trees which caused the sunlight to dapple over the garden, the beat of his wings was loud and violent, echoing off the walls of the pyramid. Viserion's screech followed as the green dropped into the clearing  of the garden, the sheep they had fought over clutched in it's forepaw. It shook the creature sharply, dropping it to the ground and sprayed it with fire. Once the wool had burned away and the skin had blackened, it settled down to eat. 

Viserion had landed closer to the trees, huffing angrily. She stalked up to the last sheep, grasped it in her jaws, and made to pull it away.  Drogon watched emotionlessly, tearing a leg off his own meal and eating it, bones, hoof and all, but Rhaegal took offense at it's sister sharing the meal. When the green came forward to claim the sheep, Daenerys looked up from her place on Drogon's black scales and called out to her children in High Valyrian. 

"Kelītīs! Rhaegal!" Her handmaidens were watching. Irri bit into a fig, and, at Jhiqui's bidding, pulled her legs into her body, away from the dragons. Meliqo had frozen in her seat, she was hardly trusting of Drogon, much less his wild sibling. The green did not listen to it's mother's words, but when Drogon stirred from his rest both of his siblings stopped to stare. The black was as large as both of his siblings combined, and his roar was deafening. While Viserion sought shelter beind Arianne, Rhaegal slunk back to its favored corner. 

"He seems ill," Aegon said, as he watched Viserion drop her carcass behind their table and curl herself around it. Once it was hidden by her body, she too breathed fire over it, to remove the mouthfuls of wool. While the queen and her Dothraki handmaidens seemed content to eat lunch only meters from Drogon's grisly meal, Aegon seemed put off the lamb. He nibbled on the salad of raisins and carrots, trying to avoid looking at the dragons as they ate. 

Arianne arranged her green tokar higher on her arm as she looked to the green, in it's nest of gleaming armor and stolen treasures, and considered it's growls as it ate the sheep, "she seems fierce and proud and powerful. Like a dragon." 

The Ghiscari wine was weak and thin and pale, but she drank it anyway. The nobles liked to see her drinking their wine, it made them feel as if she were one of them. Who drank such inferior wine save those who made it? Neither Aegon nor Daenerys appreciated it, and although Quentyn drank openly and often, Arianne suspected it was his attempt to befriend the little queen rather than any true love of it. She also suspected he would have more luck if he drank the fermented mare's milk her bloodriders favored. 

"He is wild too," Aegon abandoned his salad in favor of the hot bread. Perhaps that reminded him less of bloody joints? "he needs a rider." 

"It is the queen you must convince of that, not I," she would not deny that Aegon was handsome and charming, but Arianne would not risk angering Daenerys only for him to get himself killed. It was Rhaegal who had set Quentyn on fire. She could do the same to the princeling if she so desired. The sheep were lucky that Rhaegal had chosen to steal from her sister rather than killing her own. While the white prefered to bite off the head of her prey, the green would burn them alive, "Missandei said that you attended court every day this week." 

"I watched Hizdahr and Daenerys argue over petitions for hours on end, if that is what you mean. She will not allow me to attend her council meetings," he looked over to the queen, "I am surprised she let Hizdahr hold court alone today." 

"He is not alone," the little queen had argued only this morning with the Shavepate. Unlike Daario, who spent more and more time out of the city as Daenerys came into her own as the Queen of Meereen, Skahaz had become more aggressive, "Missandei and Ser Jorah are with him." 

"A slave trader to guard the slave master. Missandei will be too harsh on the masters, Hizdahr too easy." 

"Thus they balance each other out. Ser Jorah is there to assure a compromise is reached." 

"Her Dothraki maid said Ser Barristan was guarding the princess," Aegon lowered his voice, not so much to be suspicious, but if Drogon was anything like Viserion, Daenerys would still hear, "have you seen her daughter?" 

"Only once, and then briefly," Arianne admitted, as she pulled his salad across the table to eat it, "the girl is only seventeen months old but already she is a Targaryen. Her hair is as silver as the queen's own, and her skin like a Dothraki's. Daenerys said her eyes were a babe's blue once, but now they are violet." 

"If the queen and I marry," Arianne caught his eyes over the table and he scowled and stole her hot bread, " _if_ , do you think she will marry our son to Rhaego?" 

"I think that even if you do not marry, if she believes you are Rhaegar's son, she will marry your son to Rhaego," Viserion finished her meal with one last _crunch_ which made both she and Aegon shudder. The dragon shifted, curling around their table, and began to clean the blood from her face. 

Aegon watched her with a strange fascination. Arianne bit into a carrot and instantly understood why Aegon had given up on the salad, it's crunch was far too similar to the sound Viserion's jaws had made close to her, "Daenerys has wanted family all of her life. She _wants_ you to be who Connington says you are, but she also knows that wanting something does not make it true." 

"As should all men," he eyed the wine as though he were considering drinking, but filled his glass with sweetwater instead, "but Daenerys Stormborn is no ordinary woman. She wanted dragons once." 

"You think you are another of her miracles?" Arianne laughed, but perhaps he was right. Daenerys said she had wanted her family to live, and Aegon did. If he was not the son of Elia, it only made it truer. "You say you have sat in court, what else have you learned of our dear queen?" 

"I have learnt that your brother admires her greatly. Some men would say that he loves her." 

"If you are not Elia's son, then perhaps he will still marry her," she was repeating Quentyn's words, she knew, and when he had spoken them she had not known if he said them because he loved the little queen or because he believed them, "if you are Elia's son, there is no need. Rhaegar's marriage to Elia will be our alliance." 

"I have also learned the names of her bloodriders and handmaidens," he offered, "and I spoke at length with Ser Jorah about Dothraki culture. Also... I think I may have seduced Irri." 

Arianne nearly choked on the salad, "how do you not know if you seduced her?" She hastily swallowed wine to clear her throat as her cousin blushed, "did you fuck her?" 

"No! I was talking to her and she- well, I did not seduce her, but... she tried to seduce me?" 

"What were you talking to her about?" 

Aegon's flush crept higher. He was paler than Daenerys, likely even before she had been bronzed by the sun in the Dothraki Sea. When he blushed, his ears turned red, "Ser Jorah had said the queen meant to breed the stallion Hizdahr gifted her to her silver mare. I was trying to make small talk- I asked what the queen meant to do with the foal." 

Arianne could not help the laughter. At her side, Viserion turned to look at her, as did the queen's handmaidens. When she could speak through her laughter, she managed to lower her voice so as not to be heard in the entire courtyard, "so she tried to fuck you?" 

"I think so? We were talking about Daenerys, not Irri, about her court. I spoke with Hizdahr as well, about his attempts to hire the freedmen and your work at rebuilding the trade." 

"Did Hizdahr try to fuck you?" 

"He's _male_ _,_ " he seemed so horrified that Arianne had to wonder if he had truly traveled with Jon Connington. Perhaps Oberyn had been wrong about the man? 

"That does not answer my question." 

"Do men often lie with men in Westeros?" Both looked up sharply. They had been too busy with their conversation to notice Daenerys as she approached. Of late she had taken to wearing silks sewn in the style of Dothraki leathers; today they were blue. Caught off guard, Aegon's blush had returned, and he was looking at her as though he expected her to answer. Some king.  

"Not often, but some do. The Faith of the Seven does not approve, thus when it is done, it is kept quiet," Viserion stretched out her neck to huff at her mother, and Daenerys rubbed her muzzle above the sheep blood. The queen stepped over the dragon's forepaws to sit in the chair nearest the trees, between Aegon and Arianne. 

Daenerys poured herself some of what the Ghiscari called wine and considered them, "Irri says that you were attempting to seduce her." 

Aegon had only just fought back his embarrassment and his ears flushed once more, but Arianne could not stop the giggles, "do the Dothraki often flirt by discussing horse breeding?" 

"I only wanted to know what you meant to do with the foal!" 

"I will give it to Rhaego. I you want a foal from their pairing, perhaps you can have the second one," the queen studied her nephew over the rim of her wine glass, "if you mean to bed Irri, she would not be angry if you chose not to take her to wife." 

"Mother, help me," the princeling took the wine from Arianne and filled his own glass, drank heavily and winced at the strange aftertaste. His silvery hair was longer than the queen's, tied back in a loose braid. Ser Jorah said that Daenerys' hair had once reached her waist, before the fire woke her dragons and burnt it away. She could not help but wonder if it felt as soft as the dragon queen's. 

Arianne scoffed, "you should ask the Maiden instead. Is this your way of telling him that if he wishes to fuck Irri, you will still marry him if he is Elia's son?" 

"Irri or Hizdahr or anyone he likes, so long as they are willing." 

"I am not sleeping with Hizdahr!" Aegon yelped. 

Daenerys grinned like a girl of sixteen, "then, you _are_ sleeping with Irri?" 

"No!" 

"You should," Arianne told him, as she glanced toward the Dothraki girl, "it is good experience. There are many things a man can do to pleasure a woman. All must be learned." 

"Can you teach Hizdahr?" 

"No!" 

"I was not asking for you," the queen remarked, still grinning, "unless you were bedding him after all." 

"No!" Aegon's blush had reached the top of his ears now. If he was to be a king they would have to rid him of that, but for now it was rather cute, "I only meant- what if she becomes pregnant?" 

"Irri? I will have her son raised in my khalasar, taught by my bloodriders, and perhaps when he comes of age he will be bloodrider to Rhaego." 

"The boy would be a bastard," Aegon protested. There were still many Targaryens for him to emulate, but it was good that he would not be another Aegon the Unworthy. 

"There are no bastards among the Dothraki. If a boy shows promise, but his father is uncertain, he will be chosen to be trained by one of the riders; that man, he will call father. However, if a man knows he has fathered a child, on a slave or wife, he will take the child as his own." 

"What if she's pregnant with a girl?" Arianne asked, amused.  

"Rhaego will be trained by my bloodriders, she could be as well." 

"And if a Dothraki man has a bastard girl in a khalasar?" 

"A boy will stay with his father's khalasar until it breaks, but Dothraki do not takes wives within their own khalasars. Daughters can be given in exchange for wives. Some riders will even trade their horses if they have no daughters and a brother will agree to find a wife for their son. If a slave has a daughter, the girl will be quickly claimed by the strongest warrior who could have fathered her. They may even fight over her." 

"So both sons and daughters are assets to make the khalasar more powerful," Arianne mused. 

"Both are considered worth less than horses until the boys prove themselves in battle and girls in childbirth, if that is what you mean," Daenerys agreed, "but it is no longer so in my khalasar. Anyone who wants to be trained, son or daughter, will be trained." 

"The other khalasars will continue as they always have," Aegon looked up at the Great Pyramid above them, "or will you change that?" 

"I cannot rule all of Essos." 

"No," Arianne agreed, "but he could." 

Black scales shining, Drogon basked in the sunlight that bathed the clearing, one burning eye observing his domain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the comments! I really appreciate them! This fic is for all of you who comment, because without you it wouldn't exist.
> 
> I'm trying to make Dany an enabler instead of a queen here. Instead of ruling over the people, she is helping them to end slavery and create a new system. Hizdahr and Missandei are hearing petitions and former Meereenese merchants are working to re-establish trade. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa! I already have it written too :-)


	33. Lady Lannister VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was said that Casterly Rock was three times the size of Winterfell, and until she saw it she had not believed.

5/24/300

The tallest spires of Casterly Rock and Lannisport had loomed on the horizon since sunhigh. 

Travel through Lannisport was necessary to reach the Rock, and as they neared the walls of the city the road became smoother. Sansa was tempted to call a halt and return to the wheelhouse, as was expected of a highborn lady of the Westerlands, but she wanted to see the city as they approached. Gulls called overhead and the air increasingly smelt of salt. Jaime had told her that the Rock sat on the sea, but it seemed that she had not understood quite what he meant. 

Lannisport was a massive city. A Crakehall had been given command of the men that morning, and their party became fewer as they came upon the city and every step thereafter. As they entered on the main road, many merchants watched, and more than one unrolled beautiful jewelry or fine fabrics as they went by. When Jaime noticed that Sansa was looking at a fine gold necklace, he tossed coins to the merchant, plucked it off of his table, and hung it over her neck with a grin. 

As they came upon the gates on the far side of the city, their guard was only a few dozen men, who stopped when Sansa pulled up her mare. The road to the Rock was a short one, and she could see the massive stone structure inlaid with manmade buildings from here. The bridge had two guard towers on each side, with men barely visible at the top of each. At the place where the Rock curved into a shelf, walls were laid to protect the lords who lived there, with spires of castles visible high above them. 

"That is the Great Keep," Jaime told her when she stared at the walls, "and there is a courtyard within those walls. On fair days you will be able to see all of Lannisport from your rooms, and walk in the grass of the gardens near the top." 

"I, for one, am glad to see it," Tyrion nudged his bay into a trot, and they followed. The bridge was wide and high, and Sansa was glad of it. She had no wish to see the crashing waves below, or the jagged edges of the rock. Once they were through the gates - the Lion's Mouth, Tyrion said - the horses seemed to know the way. The path was lit by torches, and Sansa could feel her mare's growing nervousness. She walked closer to Tyrion's destrier, for the bay had been born at the Rock; she did not fear the darkness within it. 

The ride was long, but the darkness did not seem to bother the Lannister brothers. Tyrion seemed sullen, yet Jaime's chatter and laughter drew him from his silence. For her part, Sansa was glad that she had not worn her heavy dresses as she had wanted. The heat was nearly unbearable within the chamber as it was. Just when Sansa had begun to believe the chamber was endless, it opened into a massive room. 

It was not near as busy as Lannisport had been, but men and mules still moved throughout it. Two of these men, miners, by the look of them, were arguing outside of a great lift, but when they saw the newcomers their argument stopped altogether. Jaime took the lift they had been waiting for. It easily fit all of their horses and the wheelhouse, and Sansa was forced to wonder what the men had intended to haul that they could not simply share the space. 

Over the next several hours, Sansa's palfrey grew more relaxed. Exiting the first lift brought them to another large room, and another long ramp lit by torches. This one had fewer miners, instead it seemed to be occupied by knights and entertainers and maids. Three times Jaime reassured her that all was well, once on each lift, and he filled the rides with stories about the massive castle she would rule. When she had first seen them, Sansa had thought the numbers the castle kept were impossible, but now it seemed feasible.  

She no longer resented Tyrion's offer for his Aunt Genna to help her with the duties of the Lady of the Rock. 

At long last, the air cooled and the ramp flattened, as it opened into a the massive courtyard Jaime had promised. The walls that she had seen from below were from the other side, and her mare gave a heaving sigh of relief as she trotted over grass again. A number of women waited on the steps to the keep, golden hair shining in the sunlight, but it was the Rock itself that captured Sansa's attention. The man made buildings were set carefully into the natural stone, and she could see windows and balconies just above the keep.  

Jaime swung down from his horse, then came to gently lift her down from the saddle. Her stomach and ribs ached, but that faded once he set her on the ground. Sansa had only finished straightening her golden skirts when Myrielle came to her side, "you must befriend Lady Genna," she instructed, and Sansa blinked at her.  

"Lady Genna?" Of the women who came down the stairs, three looked Lannister born. The eldest among them was plump and smiling as Jaime met her on the stairs. 

"Lord Tywin's sister," Myrielle tucked her hands deep into her sleeves, folding them before her as they walked, "she has served as Lady of the Rock since Lady Joanna's death. If you can make her love you, you will have all of the Westerlands." 

"Sansa," Jaime reached for her as they came near, "this is my family." 

The plump woman who had led the procession was introduced as Lady Genna, sister to Lord Tywin. She had a square face, but her hair and her smile were the same as the queen's, if kinder. Sansa feared she was only better at pretending than her niece was. Genna clutched Sansa's hands and kissed Myrielle's head, smiling all the while. 

Blue-eyed, brunette Dorna Swyft was next, introduced as Ser Kevan's wife and mother to his children. Her dress was deep blue, and the only jewelry she wore was the golden hairnet which hid her hair behind her round face. In her arms was her daughter Janei, a girl of three, and when Willem came up the stairs he kissed her cheek.  _She once meant to be a Silent Sister_ , Myrielle would say, later, when Sansa had been shown to her rooms,  _but it was not thought suitable for the daughter of a lord._  

The woman draped in lions was introduced as Ella of Lannisport, the daughter of the ruling lord of the city, and married to Damon Lannister, who had been Lady Joanna's half-brother. Her good-daughter Shiera Crakehall shared her golden hair, but her eyes reminded Sansa of the sea. Shiera was wife to Damion, castellan of the Rock and son of Ella. Dressed in black, with shining green eyes, was Darlessa Marbrand, wife to dead Tygett and mother to missing Tyrek, with her was Tyrek's two year old wife, Ermesande Hayford. 

Last of all, Jaime introduced her to Myrielle's family. Cerenna, with brown hair and hazel eyes, who was to marry Willas Tyrell and become the Lady of Highgarden in time. Her chin was high and she frowned at Sansa, but still she curtseyed and spoke all the right words. Myranda Lefford, Myrielle's mother, did not have even Cerenna's smile. She bid Sansa welcome and curtseyed deeper than all the rest, but something about her was unsettling. When Ser Daven came up the steps, his mother hugged him tightly, her face pinched and drawn. 

Once the introductions were over, Jaime looked back to the courtyard, "is Sansa's gift here?" 

"When the scouts saw that you were near, I sent Ser Arnold to fetch it," Lady Genna said, nodding down to the busy yard, "he is along the wall, there." 

Jaime caught Sansa's hand in his, "come and see." 

She did as he asked, a curious Tyrion following along behind. Even this high, the entirety of the castle was filled with the dull sound of the sea, loud in her ears; the air was salty, the taste strange on Sansa's tongue. Yet she was filled with a strange calm that she did not understand until Jaime led her around the wall to where Ser Arnold waited. 

Sansa's feet were frozen to the ground for a moment. Then she was kneeling on the ground, sobbing into soft fur. She would after be told that she had torn herself from Jaime's grasp, pulled her skirts up, and met the direwolf half-way across the yard; the poor knight who had tried to hold a lead now lying in the dirt. For now, she was entirely unconscious of all that.  

Lady had been as tall as her waist when she had last seen her, but now the wolf's head came up to her chest. At two years old, she was still young. Sansa ran her hands over her white face and the grey fur that darkened over the top of her head. She felt her ears and the fluff over her chest, and looked into her yellow eyes. Lady covered her face and hands in licks, her tail wagging fiercely. Sansa did not know why she was crying; for her father, for Bran and Rickon, for her own foolishness, or from pure happiness.  

When she had no more tears, Lady licked them away, and Sansa looked up to find that Jaime had waited for her. She tried to stand, her skirts caught under her feet, and he helped her up, offered a handkerchief, and  gingerly offered his hand for Lady to sniff. Brushing as much dirt as she could off of her dress, Sansa cleaned her face and looked up at her lord husband, feeling like a stupid little girl again, "I am sorry." 

"Why are you sorry?" Lady let him pet her head softly, her tail still wagging. 

"I should not have been so emotional, I have shamed you." 

Jaime laughed as only a Lannister could, "you have not shamed anyone. Even my aunt had a favorite hound pup as a girl, and this is a direwolf. Many men would pay anything to own such a creature." 

"My dress..." the fine silk was covered in dirt, and although most of it came out when Sansa brushed it it, the color remanded dulled. 

"You are a Lady of the Rock, there are many other dresses. You never need wear that one again if you wish, have the maids throw it out instead of cleaning it." 

Sansa looked up from brushing out her skirts with one hand, the other still resting in Lady's soft fur, "I can never thank you well enough. I had thought to never see her again." 

Jaime stepped close enough to kiss her softly, and when he made to step back she embraced him, rested her head against his chest and fought the rising tears again, "you do not need to thank me," he said, lips against her hair, "the direwolf belongs to you. All I did was request your brother return what is yours." 

Hands pressed against her shoulders, moving her back until she was looking into his eyes. She likely looked a mess, but Jaime smiled down at her, "You were worried about losing Daven as your sworn shield, is she a suitable replacement?" 

"Where will she be kept?" A direwolf would not like staying in a kennel, no more than Sansa herself had like being caged in the Red Keep. Lady would tolerate it, but she would grow lonely. 

"Where ever you like," Jaime paused, "within reason, of course. If you wish her to stay in your rooms, she shall stay there. If you wish her to stay in Tyrion's rooms, I may have to refuse." 

"She can stay with me if she wishes," Tyrion said, from his place nearer the stairs, "but she first must promise not to bite."  

"Lady will not bite," Sansa promised quickly, remembering how wary the men had been of her on the trip south. It was not Lady who had been the cause of Joffrey's wound, but she nearly been killed nonetheless.  

"Unless you want her too, I hope," Tyrion waddled closer to them, holding out both hands to Lady as a gesture of peace, "else she will make a poor guardian." 

Lady sniffed at him, but stayed near Sansa. Slowly, Jaime unhooked the lead from her collar and handed it to Sansa, "bring her back inside," he directed, "my aunt has set up a lunch for us." 

Sansa took his offered arm. They kept pace with Tyrion, Lady padding along behind, and Sansa took the opportunity to admire the castle. Her castle. Myrish carpets lined the floors, and even when they were in a room that must be a cave, the builders had so cleverly overlaid the stone with walls that it was unnoticeable. The dining rooms were set near the walls, which had windows cut into them to allow in light. 

The women of the Rock had gathered there, but the rooms were large enough to accommodate many more people. They must, she realized, when the men are not away. Jaime had been given the seat at the head of the table in his father's absence, Tommen to his right, and the place to his left empty. Myrielle stood near the doors, and as they entered she interrupted them. 

Her eyes were wide as she looked at Lady, but Sansa let go of Jaime to reach for her, "do not be afraid. Lady will not hurt you." 

"As you say," Myrielle kept Sansa between herself and the wolf. While Jaime and Tyrion ventured further into the room, she leaned closer to Sansa to adjust the necklace Jaime had given her. He had hung it around her neck haphazardly, but when Myrielle had leaned in to clasp it about her neck properly, she spoke, "Lord Tywin holds no love for Tyrion. He will be relegated to the end of the table if nothing is done." 

Sansa had not realized until that moment that the seat to Jaime's left belonged to her and not his brother. She lowered her voice to match Myrielle's own, letting her words be covered by the singer and the happiness of the family, "what am I meant to do about that?" 

"Whatever you please. You are to be the Lady of Casterly Rock, if they will not listen to you about seating, they will not listen to you about anything else," Myrielle stepped back, gently adjusting Sansa's sleeves as she went, and followed as she strode deeper into the room. 

 _I must be as strong as my lady mother,_  she thought. Catelyn Stark would never have allowed Uncle Benjen to be seated far from father. Yet her mother had been a war's bride, not a war's hostage.  _Am I a hostage?_  Jaime said she was not. He claimed her as his lady wife, and had shown her great care.  _I will protect you,_  he had said. 

She went to where Lady Genna sat to Jaime's left, and smiled sweetly, like her septa had taught her, "I beg your forgiveness, my lady aunt, but there is not enough room for myself and my good-sister." 

Genna studied her with sharp green eyes, a smile forming on her face, "a bold one, I see. Most Starks are, I think." 

"I meant no offence," Sansa assured her, her smile firmly fixed in place as Genna moved a seat down to allow Myrielle room, "you only meant to speak to my lord husband before we eat, as Lady Dorna speaks to the prince before my good-brother sits." 

Tyrion had been speaking to Darlessa Marbrand near the end of the table. When all eyes in the room went to him, he stilled, cast a glance to Dorna and Tommen, and said, "Lady Sansa is correct. I do not mind that my seat is borrowed whilst I chatter," Sansa had not thought he had been listening. 

"I like her," Genna told Jaime, "Far better than I liked the Tully girl, at least. Tywin should be pleased, though. It seems you married a Riverlands maiden after all that happened." 

Myrielle's eyes flickered down to Lady and back to Sansa, and she did not miss the gesture. Tyrion clambered into his seat next to the prince, and reached for the wine, only to find that Myrielle had stolen it to fill Sansa's glass and her own. Sansa touched the hems of her sleeves, where the gold was hemmed with white Myrish lace.  

"I am not of the Riverlands," she heard herself say, "I am a Stark of Winterfell." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here! Welcome to the Rock, all Jaime and Sansa chapters will be generally based here going forward.
> 
> Why is this out early? Because I'm struggling to finalize the next chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews guys! And special thanks to treagle, who's review made my day :-)
> 
> Next Chapter: Jaime!


	34. Kingslayer VI

6/15/300

Tyrion had planned this. 

After the relaxation of their first few days at the Rock: settling Sansa into her new rooms, seeing to the army that had come to Lannisport with them, sorting through the news that had arrived at the Rock during his absence from King's Landing; Jaime had been eager to begin the routine of ruling the Rock. He remembered his boyhood fondly, and with his life in the Kingsguard gone, he had sought a new purpose  in ruling. 

First had been the family matters. Dorna wanted a repair done to the sept, which he easily granted. Ella thought that tribute should be given to Lannisport, as they were preparing a tourney in Sansa's honor. Myranda wanted her rooms moved across the Rock, a distance of seven miles, which Jaime thought was excessive, but granted to her. Darlessa wanted her son found, and he was forced to tell her that he and Tywin and half of King's Landing had searched and found nothing. The boy was likely dead, although he could hardly tell her that, or the darker theories on why there was no body to be found.  

The petitions only became worse from there.  

Sansa had seemed similarly overwhelmed with her work for several days on end, but little Myrielle had ushered her into what had been his mother's solar and closed the door firmly behind them. Thereafter, anything that Sansa was responsible for had worked better than it had before she came to the Rock. Although most of the Lannister women bid for Sansa's attentions, it was quiet Myrielle and lonely Joy who became her constant companions. As always, Genna was above the squabbling, content to allow Sansa her role. Sansa never visited the sept, and Genna did not embroider willingly, yet it was she and Dorna who Sansa sought out when the work of the castle was done. 

Jaime did not have the same support. Tyrion first escaped under the guise of entertaining his bride-to-be. Once Sansa had stolen her, he again avoided Jaime by leaving the castle altogether, ostensibly to visit the nearby castles, burgeoning Lannisport and the ruins of Castamere, but Jaime suspected his brother meant to force him to do the work of a lord himself.  

While he debated sending a letter to request Tyrion's help, his brother already two weeks gone, Jaime had attempted to piece together his own men. Damion did well enough as castellan of the Rock, and Maester Creulen were eager to aid in any way he could, but Jaime needed a steward. It was Tyrion he wanted, but as his brother was currently testing the limits of his freedom, he was loathe to name him such. He tried several men in the place, from Damon to Daven, but none fit. His uncle managed to anger half of Lannisport during the two weeks of his service, while his cousin had successfully - and accidentally - set fire to a silo within a month.

No raven had flown to Castamere in many years, and thus Jaime was forced to send a rider on a tall, slim stallion of northern Reach stock, the fastest horse he could find.  

That had been two days ago. Today, Jaime had broken his fast in his solar, pouring over old records and newly arrived letters. After he had refused the Lydden boy for his page half of the lords in the Westerlands had sent offers of their own sons, most notably Robert Brax, nephew to Lord Tytos, who was of an age with Tommen. While the prince had settled into the role of a page easily, he needed to spend time with boys near his own age.  

It was this that Sansa interrupted, and Jaime was more than happy to brush the subject aside to visit with his little wife. Her lady companions were missing, although the ever present direwolf was not, and she wore a glorious red dress trimmed in white. The dress had not existed when they arrived at the Rock, it's creation having been Sansa's hobby this last week. Brilliant in the sunlight, her hair hung in loose waves around her head in the Northern style, making her all the more beautiful. 

Sansa had been more comfortable since they arrived at the Rock. Once the harshness of the road was gone, she had healed quickly; all but the worse bruises now faded completely. Genna's advice had seen her holding some facsimile of court, but once the news spread, half of the Westerlands would be in attendance. Courage had been fostered by Dorna's insistence that she joined her in the sept; Sansa had refused daily, eventually ending the requests by asking Dorna to pray with her in the godswood.  

"I apologize for my interruption," she folded her hands in front of her, paler than Jaime had seen her since they had left King's Landing. Instead of sitting, she stood nervously in front of his desk, and for a moment Jaime was tempted to look for blood in Lady's fur. His little wife had seemed less anxious when she had told him that she had appropriated funds to restore the godswood after he found four men carrying a bench in the lift. 

"I would sooner admire my lovely wife than parchment on my desk," Jaime assured her, "have you come to fetch me for lunch?" 

"No," a bright flush was rising along her skin, "I have news." 

"News? Of Tyrion?" Jaime found that his wife would not quite look at him. Instead she seemed to be focused on the wall behind him, slightly above his head.  

"No," Lady padded around his desk, tail wagging like a dog's, and he patted her ears when she whined at him. 

"Has a raven arrived?" Perhaps Tyrion had sent a raven. Or one may have come from King's Landing, his father had not sent word of late. Although, if the raven was from Cersei it explained Sansa's hesitance. 

"There has not been a raven," Sansa's face seemed brighter than her hair, "it is my news." 

"Is this about the godswood again? Sansa, the Rock has more gold than any place in the known world, even our best miners say that there are great, untouched veins of gold deep within the caverns. You may spend as much as you please on your godswood, or your dresses, or your direwolf." 

"Not that," Sansa managed to look him in the face, although it seemed that the effort made her blush brighter, "I spoke with Maester Attis this morning. He says that I am- that you will be a father." 

Lady skittered backward when he stood suddenly, stepping around his desk to stand in front of Sansa, hands hovering over her stomach. He was hesitant to touch her, cognizant that the worst of her injuries had been there, aware that he would not be able to feel so much as a bump so early, but uniquely unable to resist the urge to cover her belly with his hands. His little wife reached for his hands and gently guided them forward. 

After staring at her belly like a fool for several moments, Jaime looked up to her, "when- how long-?" 

"For about six weeks. The maester thinks he will be born two months into the new year," her flush had faded, and her embarrassment, but her abashed expression made him want to kiss her.  

He did, cupping his hands around her face gently. When he let her go, she was still blushing, but she looked far more certain of herself than she had, "who have you told?" 

"Told? You? Was I meant to tell someone else?" Jaime kissed her again, removing the baffled look from her face. 

"No, all the better," he grinned down at her, "I will tell everyone!" 

"What?" It was then that the door opened, admitting old Maester Creulen, who was apologizing as he entered. First for being late, then for interrupting, but Jaime strode across the floor to grasp the old man by his arms. 

"Ah, Creulen! I am to be a father!" The maester's eyes went from Jaime, to a flustered Sansa, and then came back. 

"Congratulations, my lord," he croaked, a smile breaking out on his worn face, "what will you name the babe?" 

Jaime paused, then released the maester and turned back to Sansa, "what will you name a daughter?" 

"Me? I- I had thought... Catryn? I know there was a Lady Hamell named Catryn." 

He turned back to Creulen, "and if we have a son, I will name him Jerion, for my uncle." 

"This is wonderful news. Shall I write to Lord Tywin to inform him?" 

"Send the swiftest raven you have," Jaime ordered, "we must prepare a feast!" 

Sansa stood in the center of his solar, utterly befuddled, her direwolf sat at her feet looking up at her, with a wagging tail. Jaime beamed at her, aware that it was she who would normally be running said feast, "did you wish to organize it? It seems a bit odd for you to prepare your own celebratory feast, but you can if you wish, of course. Otherwise, perhaps my Aunt Genna? Or Lady Myrielle?" 

"A feast? Now?" 

"Traditionally, it is held after the babe quickens," Jaime mused, "but if you want two feasts we can arrange that." 

"Why would we need to arrange a feast five months in advance?" 

Jaime scoffed, "you are the Lady of Casterly Rock. It would be a disgrace for you to not have a finer celebration than all the rest of the Westerlands. It will also give you a chance to find a companion to be fostered alongside the child." 

"What if we have a daughter." 

"Do they not foster daughters in the North?" 

"Sons, usually. Daughters are only fostered in preparation for marriage, or if a lord has no sons. Theon Greyjoy was fostered alongside my brother Robb." 

"A bannerman's daughter is usually fostered alongside a daughter of the Rock. Jeyne Farman was fostered as a companion for my sister, and Layna Lydden for my aunt. If we have a daughter she will need a companion as much as a son would. If we send out word now, every lady with a son or daughter of the right age will attend, and all will seek your favor in hopes of having their child chosen." 

Maester Creulen nodded eagerly, "when Lady Joanna had her twins, half of the ladies in the Westerlands conceived soon thereafter in hope of being chosen. I am told the same happened with Lady Jeyne." 

"Perhaps they will find direwolves as well," Jaime mused. Lady seemed to know they were speaking of her, her tail wagging happily. He was focused on her when the door struck him.  

Tyrion smirked at him as he pushed the door the rest of the way open, "who will find direwolves? Are we expecting more Starks?" 

"More Lannisters, I would think," Jaime answered, directing a pointed look at Sansa. At least he knew why his evey-punctual maester had been late, "although they are Starks too, in a way." 

Having been born clever, it only took his brother a moment to understand the implication, "congratulations," had Jaime been alone, he suspected he would have heard more, but Tyrion held his tongue for Sansa's sake. 

"Thank you! All the more reason for you to marry Lady Myrielle quickly, " Tyrion might have said something, if Jaime had stopped talking long enough, "now that you are back, I mean to name you my steward. We need a hundred horses, ten new silos, and a calf from the golden cows of Lannisport." 

"You-" he could all but see his brother turn the requests over in his head, "why do we need a calf?" 

"For the feast." Jaime dearly wished he had asked about the silos instead. Daven was still refusing to handle anything more than the duties of a hedge knight.

Tyrion rubbed the bridge of his nose, unbuckled his cloak, and waddled forward to hand it from the chair nearest Jaime's desk, "The feast." 

"For my babe." 

"For your babe. Why not. I expect a solar." 

"Take the one down the hall." 

"And a squire." 

"What else is Podrick Payne?" 

"A second squire." 

"Josmyn Peckledon came with us from King's Landing after fighting in Blackwater. He is only just recovered and not sworn to a knight, I will make him your squire as well," Jaime sighed, "what else do you want? A dragon? Take whatever it is for yourself." 

"If you _have_  a dragon, I will take it," Tyrion agreed, "otherwise I will have my rooms moved to the family hall and go to arrange my solar. We will meet after dinner tonight, that will be enough time to be settled." 

"Shall I inform Myrielle that you are here, Tyrion?" Sansa asked. 

Tyrion frowned at that, "no. That is, I have much to do. What time is it? I should- I will lunch with her. Could you have a meal sent to my solar?" 

Sansa smiled at that, not the sweet, patient smile tainted with honeyed words, but the one she had when she looked at Lady, "I will have one sent, and I will send Myrielle as well." 

"I did not mean-" Tyrion was already too late, but at least he was finally baffled by something as well. As Sansa escaped out the door, he plucked the wine off of Jaime's desk, "she is different than she was in the Red Keep. More a Stark, I think. She reminds me of her brother." 

"She reminds you of Robb Stark?" 

"No, the other one, the bastard." 

"My sweet Sansa reminds you of her bastard brother?" 

"She has his impulsiveness," Tyrion agreed, making off with his wine as he pushed the door open and headed down the hall, "a Stark trait, I would think." 

Jaime remembered another impulsive Stark, in the courtyard of the Red Keep. _Come out and die_ , he had called, over and over, Riverlords behind him chanting the same. He had been tall and proud and bold then, but Jaime had seen him differently by the end. It was the later times that drove him from the throne when another Stark had demanded it. His father had been at the gates then, and he could have kept the throne. He had abandoned Elia and her babes for it, why not keep it? It was not as if his father would understand what had driven him from the crown. 

Let Sansa be a Stark. He would be of more use to her than he had been to Elia. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews guys! All of them were REALLY insightful. I always love watching my readers untangle my plot (and laughing evilly when you miss something).
> 
> Why is this out early? Again? Because I'm struggling to finalize the next chapter. Again!!
> 
> Next Chapter: Winterfell


	35. Lady Stark V

8/26/300

It was not that Jeyne found all the men of the North frightening. 

Robb was the most honorable man she had ever met, even among the knights of the Reach. When she had been charged with tending to his wounds, Jeyne had feared him at first. The Stark King had overrun her home and held her family captive, but he had been kind even through his pain, and had taken no liberties with her. No man had forced her to do anything; it had been her choice to comfort him when the news came from Winterfell, her choice to allow him to weep in her arms, her choice to follow him to bed. Leaving her to suffer the consequences of her choices was within his rights, but instead he had taken her to wife. 

Jon Umber, called 'Smalljon' was a hulking, fierce man with a great beard and a temper as sharp as the winds which struck the castle, but he was gentle all the same. Although he thundered and slammed his ale on the table as the men argued, he told Arya that she had her father's eyes and called Jeyne 'Lady Stark.' Robb and Lady Catelyn were obeyed without question, and for all his shouting he showed no intent to violence. 

No, most of these Northerners were good men.  

Of Ramsey Snow, she was not so certain. He had taken Winterfell back from Theon Turncloak, as the men called him, but it was difficult to find gratefulness for his action. There was something about the way he lurked near his father, his eyes fixed on Lady Catelyn and Arya and Jeyne herself that she did not trust. Both of the Stark women would agree, although for Lady Catelyn it would be the circumstances of his birth that disturbed her, and for Arya it would be the rumors of the Boltons. Jeyne did not think that any man would truly keep the skins of their enemies as trophies, but Arya was young; she did not think deeply on such things. 

Although Winterfell had not been completely rebuilt, and Lady Catelyn worried over supplies for the coming winter, Robb had ordered a great feast held. It worked well to show that Winterfell was recovering from the Ironborn attack, but that was not the true reason he had been so insistent. The Northernmen had grumbled of late, raven and rider arriving with the same news: wildlings and unrest. They thought the Wall unsecure, and it was the duty of Winterfell to support the Night's Watch. Gathering all of the lords in one place would make communication easier, but it would also let Robb watch their faces as he gave them his news. 

There were many men in the Great Hall, but Jeyne had no wish to spend more time with Ramsey Snow than strictly necessary. Thus, when his father left him in the Great Hall while the present lords sought privacy upstairs, and she was left with an increasingly small number of companions, Jeyne joined the exodus. Grey Wind padded along at her side, and while her mother was turned away by the guards, Jeyne was swept along in the crowd of lords. She was Robb's wife, was owed a seat in his counsel in the thoughts of these men.  

Only Lady Catelyn frowned at her as she entered, but a seat was made for beside Robb. She disappeared easily in the crowd, her chestnut hair and slight form invisible in a way Robb was not. Under the table, Grey Wind sat, leaning against her legs and sniffing at Robb when his master looked down to him. Shouting overtook the small room as the lords clustered in, and it took three tries before Robb was heard over the din, "my lords! Please!" 

"House Umber has followed House Stark for a thousand years," Lord Umber bellowed. He was hardly taller than his son, but he was older, his beard longer, and thus they called him Greatjon. The clamor had not died down enough for individual voices to be heard, but he shouted over the room rather than waiting, "longer, even. During that time we were protected from wildlings and the petty politics of the other kingdoms. Now the Lannisters demand my daughter to wed, wildlings pour over the Wall to raid my lands, and there are more Freys there than Northmen fighting them." 

"Are you proposing that we force men to join the Wall?" Robb asked, missing his crown but looking every bit the king, "or do you have men who have volunteered?" 

"Something must be done. I half suspect that these stories of wildlings my smallfolk tell are only mistaken Freys." 

"Is it your wish that the Freys had been left to the south?" Catelyn asked, her blue-grey skirts arranged carefully between herself and the Lady Mormont, "were they not more dangerous in their castle than at the Wall?" 

"They are still in the south," Roose Bolton mused. He was quieter than Lord Umber, but that only made Jeyne trust him less. Perhaps she had spent too much time in the North, but when every other lord shouted and squabbled, Lord Bolton's silence was offsetting. The other lords thought so too, or they would not have quieted so quickly. 

"Wives and daughters who will wed into other houses." 

"And young men who will take their mother's father's named, but not their loyalties." 

" _Children_ , Lord Bolton. You speak of children. The eldest we left in the south was ten and one." 

"Children grow up to be men. If the Riverlords could not stomach the deaths, then they should have at least taken the children from their mothers. Fostering young would further remove them from their Frey fathers." 

"My brother would not hear of pulling babes from their mother's breast," Lord Edmure was not the cleverest man to ever live, but he was kind to smallfolk and lords alike. Jeyne had thought he would have made a great lord in peacetime, "I would remind you that it is not only the North that has sacrificed. Edmure must send one of his children to the Rock as well." 

"The North sent a daughter too, least you forget," that was Lord Galbart, as loud as an Umber and less respectful, "the Ned's little girl." 

"You think I have forgotten that I gave them my daughter?" 

"I care nothing for your daughter," he returned, more sharply than was common even among these Northerners. Robb bristled, but said nothing, "you are a Tully of Riverrun. It is Ned's daughter that concerns me, the Stark girl who Ned was considering to make wife to my nephew before the Baratheons came." 

Lady Catelyn drew herself up, "you are angry because Sansa was sold to the Lannisters instead of made a Lady Glover?" 

"We are angry because we find Wildlings in our lands. Because Freys have taken over the Wall," Lord Norrey answered, "because Winterfell makes no move to help." 

"We fought and died for the Riverlords," Lord Wull agreed, "and they send naught but trouble. If the Wall was still held properly we would not need to send our own men to throw back the Wildlings." 

"You fought for my lord father," Robb interjected, and at once silence fell over the hall, "unless you have forgotten. The Riverlands rose for him as well." 

"And now there is no war," Lady Eddara Tallhart's voice was flat, "Balon has hidden within Pyke, and we do not have the ships to chase him. Stannis killed Renly, and so became a kinslayer. We killed Stannis, and so became kingslayers, if his tale of Cersei's abominations was true." 

"Have you seen his body?" 

"I have not, but I have seen his banners," it was Lord Knott who spoke for her, "I slew a man bearing one myself in the Battle of the Gift." 

"How many men were there?" 

"Some four thousand, according to our scouts," Lord Burley said, "I was with you when the reports came, as were the Greatjon and Lady Mormont." 

"And how many did he have after Blackwater?" 

"Four or five thousand," Ser Wylis said. "Do you mean to say that we have not found Stannis because he is not dead?"  

"Where is he," Lord Umber asked, his voice a grumble rather than a shout, "he is not at Castle Black. We took his wife from there and sent her back south." 

"What of his Red Woman," Lord Ryswell asked, "we did not find her. I thought it odd at the time." 

Now all of the lords were staring at Robb, suddenly wary. They had forgotten the wildlings, it seemed. Lady Catelyn said nothing, only looked down to her hands folded in her lap. Any anger they had directed at her was forgotten.  

"An Essosi woman returning to Essos is not odd," Lord Karstark argued, "it would have been simple enough for her to flee to Eastwatch during the chaos and sail from there. The Lord Commander told us that she rode out of camp once she heard the news." 

"Where is Stannis," Lord Bolton interrupted before the argument could truly begin, the bickering that had begun dying just as quickly. 

"Dead. Or at Westwatch, Greyguard, Sable Hall, Torches, beyond the Wall," Robb answered simply, "how am I to know? Yet no man can call me Kingslayer." 

"You think he spoke truth, then? Of the queen and her brother? The brother wed to Lady Sansa?" Lord Flint asked. Jeyne dimly remembered that Robb's grandfather had been a Flint, thus their lord might have more interest in Sansa's fate than most. 

"No matter what else he did, Jaime Lannister is heir to Casterly Rock. Sansa's children will inherit the Westerlands, even if her husband dies. Can one man not lie with two women?" 

"If that is true, we have no proof that one or all of Queen Cersei's children are not Robert Baratheon's. Even if she did lie with her brother." 

"Is that a chance we are willing to take," Robb asked, "that perhaps one of the children should rule? Instead, let us follow the man who we know is trueborn." 

"There are men that say the Rock belong to the Imp," Lady Dustin said, "he did not swear to the Kingsguard." 

"Let him claim it if he will," Robb answered, "but Sansa's children will rule the Rock if Stannis sits the throne." 

"What good does a living Stannis do us?" Lady Mormont asked, "you are married to the Lady Jeyne, and his heir is his daughter." 

"His daughter must marry," Robb reminded him, "and she must produce a heir. You named me King in the North once, for my blood, and you rose for my father. Will you rise again to see my son sat on the Iron Throne? My father's blood ruling the Seven Kingdoms?" 

"A Stark king on the Iron Throne." 

"And the rest of us are to lick our wounds?" Lord Bolton asked, "I lost a wife when the Freys were disbanded." 

"What did you want with a Frey wife?" Lady Dustin asked, "There are Umber daughters, Flint daughters, Ryswell daughters, Glover daughters, even Lord Howland has an unwed daughter," she paused, suddenly contemplative, "even Ned Stark." 

"My sister Arya is unpromised, it is true," Robb said, "but it is upon my father's wishes. My sister is only one and ten, my father did not wish her to be betrothed until she was older. In a few years, I will find her a Northernman to wed, a castle to call her own." 

Arya was wild as could be. She sat still only long enough to earn her horse and sword, then fled the confines of the castle. Half of the dresses her mother forced her into had gone missing, until even Lady Catelyn agreed to allow her daughter to wear riding pants. Ygritte was of a similar spirit, but even she had settled down to care for her babe for a time. Jeyne did not want to think of Arya being told she was to wed some dour old lord. Indeed, she half suspected that the reason Robb refused to marry his sister was in hopes of her becoming more a lady first.  

"This is our plan, then?" Ser Wylis spoke into the quiet, "to marry the Ned's grandson to Shireen Baratheon and see them on the Iron Throne?" 

"We signed a pact," Lady Dustin said. 

"My father once told me that you could not be held to a pact sworn with a sword over your neck," Robb looked to each of the lords in the room, the bannermen that must keep his secrets and fight beside him, "when my son is born, we will take the Iron Throne in his name. You named me King in the North, supported me when I accepted the title. 

Will you see my son named King of the Seven Kingdoms?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The North's plotline is about two months ahead of Sansa's plotline. I had some questions about that, so I just wanted to clarify. Westerlands chapters follow more or less the same timeline, Winterfell is a little ahead, Meereen is a lot ahead.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for all the reviews! I really like Baelorfan and IoG's this time around, because we had some conversation. Did I mention to everyone that we were having a sequel? Because we are! I'm thinking ending this, doing ~12 drabbles through the time gap, and then starting up after our 7 year gap. It's going to be much less Lannister focused, and more a true ASOIAF fic, but I'm really excited for it.
> 
> Next chapter: Tyrion


	36. The Imp III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lion still has claws.

6/25/300

Tyrion had never realized how much Cersei looked like their father until this moment. 

Lord Tywin with teats indeed, Cersei had her mother's emerald eyes and high cheekbones, but there the resemblance ended. The shape of her nose, the line of her brow, the length of her jaw, all belonged to Tywin first. He had always thought the twins similar, but looking at his lady mother for the first time in his adult life, he could see the differences. Jaime's face had been molded after his mother's, his smile a perfect mimicry, his nose the came curve, his teeth in the same line, the shape of his brow, even the shade of his hair, all were his mother's. 

Joanna Lannister stared down from her painting, red dress blazing against her fair skin, golden hair loose and gentle in the air, every bit a queen. Neither had Jaime be wrong about Myrielle. If Tyrion had not known better, had not looked long, he could have taken his mother for his bride. He said nothing for many long moments, trying to memorize his mother's face for the first time, while his aunt pulled aside the curtains that had hidden her. 

"Is this enough?" 

"I did not even know this existed," Tyrion admitted, "thank you, aunt." 

Genna huffed, ever brazen, the red-and-gold of her own skirts swirling around her ankles as she came to stand beside him, "I did not approve of Tywin hiding her from you, I admit, but I would not go against my brother's wishes for nothing. You should ask more questions, Tyrion. I have lived at the Rock for all of my life, while my brothers were fostered and went off to war, while my mother died and your mother died, I remained." 

"You know every secret of the Rock, then, dear aunt?" Tyrion could not hold back the words, "tell me, where do whores go?" 

"Which whores? Gerion kept his whores in Essos, Tywin in King's Landing-" 

Tyrion nearly choked, "My father, the great Tywin Lannister, keeps _whores?_ After all he has said of my whoring?" 

Genna frowned down at him, "your public whoring, yes. My father kept his whore in the Rock, and when he died she went naked into Lannisport. Tywin kept his indiscretions more private, for all our sakes. You would do well to do the same." 

"You forget, it was not only I who kept my women publicly. What of Briony?" 

"That Lysene woman was not Gerion's whore," Genna scoffed, resting a hand on her hip. Even if Tyrion had doubted her, he would not bother to argue, "blind men could see that. I suppose I cannot blame you, though. You were only a boy of seventeen, and likely you did not want to see." 

"She was a common woman of Essos. That Gerion wanted to marry her would not matter to my lord father," Tyrion looked back to the painting, soaking in the image, "help me replace the curtains? I expect that he would not be happy to find that we had been in his chambers." 

Genna was taller than Tyrion, and it took her less time to draw the curtain on the right than it took him to untie the golden sash which held the curtain on the left. Still, she waited patiently for him to replace the curtain, "she does look like Myrielle." 

"Very much so," Genna agreed, as she led the way out of his father's rooms, held the door for him as they exited, "it is not surprising. Stafford was Joanna's full brother, and one of the Grey Lion's sisters married a Lord Lefford. You should spend more time with the girl, it would do you well to have her fond of you. I doubt that Tywin could refuse her much." 

"I am meant to lunch with the lady," Tyrion paused to see the time, "now. Soon, at least. You think my father would bow to a pretty face? Lady Myrielle is not outgoing or cruel enough to intend to manipulate him." 

"You should spend more time with the girl," Genna repeated, pausing in the door to Sansa's sitting rooms, "you do not know her. Ask Lady Sansa what she likes, bring her flowers and jewels, be kind to her. Tywin would not give her the Rock in Jaime's place, but he would give her Castamere. He might even give her your life, if she asked sweetly enough." 

"You think he means to kill me?" 

"I think that you intentionally annoy him, and that it is unwise to do so." 

Tyrion considered that. It was not as if he had not had such thoughts himself, but to hear them from someone else's mouth was different, "you seem fond of Sansa. Do you think she would help me with Myrielle if I asked? She has no reason to love Lannisters." 

"Sansa is not hard to love. Robb Stark's sister she may be, but she is clever and dedicated. Her greatest wish is to give Jaime sons, she makes a good Lady of the Rock, and even the smallfolk love her after her overtures outside Lannisport," Genna had a fond smile that was usually reserved for her sons, "it would be easy for her to hate us, after what Joffrey did to her, but she chooses not too. She would help anyone who asked a reasonable request of her," her face changed as she frowned down at him, "go and lunch with your lady, and remember what I have said." 

Genna shut the door firmly behind her as she entered Sansa's rooms, her skirts twisting sharply in her wake, but Tyrion stood for a moment, thinking. He had spent nearly two months trying to win Myrielle's favor. Only a fool would not, and he was no fool. The lovely Myrielle was more than he had hoped for in a bride, and the added prize of Castamere made the marriage all the more tempting. Yet she was a quiet, shy girl, who spoke little and said less. Unlike most others, she did not seem scared by his features. Myrielle was timid around everyone, even sweet Sansa, it seemed. When Cersei arrived, he would have to keep her out of his sister's path.

He found her in the dining rooms reserved for the Lannisters, with great windows overlooking the city far below, walls all but made of gold. She wore a dress of sea foam silk embroidered with lions, a simple silver necklace about her neck, her golden hair long, tamed with loose braids that he had seen his sister wear half a hundred times. Her sleeves were long, as they were always, but today she wore them in layers, the inside layer darker than the outside, and if he looked closely he might see Sansa's handwork in their beauty.  

On the table between her chair and his was a decanter full of pale red wine. When he sipped at it, he realized that it had been watered down heavily, wincing at the taste, "Lady Myrielle, forgive my lateness. I was hindered by my aunt." 

She considered him with Jaime's emerald eyes, "did Lady Genna show you your lady mother's painting?" 

Tyrion was rarely wordless. He blinked at her, drinking more of the watery wine, and tried to form an answer that did not involve his surprise, "she did. I walked her back to Sansa's sitting rooms." 

"I could hardly blame you for your lateness," Myrielle had instructed the cooks to bring smoked duck breast, with a salad of spinach, plums, and candied nuts. Had the wine not tasted like it had been poured into the ocean, it would suit the meal well, and Tyrion had to wonder who Myrielle had spoken to that she had brought his favorite meal to their lunch, "your mother was very beautiful." 

The lady was younger than he, but her father had been his mother's twin brother. He did not have to ask how she knew. Instead he tried the duck, watching Myrielle as she ate. Rather than sharing his wine, she drank a warm, sweet tea, and seemed to favor the salad over the duck. It was her right hand that had been maimed, but she ate with her left, letting the long sleeves of her dress hide her missing fingers. As she ate, she kept her eyes low and soft, never looking at anything too long, and sharing his gaze often enough to be the picture of politeness.  

"Are the maids still about? I'd like a wine that is not half water." 

"It was my doing, not theirs,"she answered, holding his gaze. If Sansa was a wolf, then Myrielle could only be a lioness, "I would rather you not be drunk if you mean to eat with me." 

"Am I always drunk, then?" Tyrion laughed, wondering if his mother had been as bold as Myrielle, or if it came from her own mother. She had been outgoing and bright, he knew, very unlike his quiet, docile bride. He could not see his father loving a woman that had not been a lioness at heart. "It is when I have my best ideas." 

"You might have better ones if you set aside your wine." 

"We are not even wed and already you nag. Will you be like this for the rest of my life?" 

"I have not agreed to marry you," Myrielle replied, "I do not have to marry you. Your lord father loved my aunt very much. There are men who say that the ruin of the Reynes was meant as a warning to then-prince Aerys Targaryen." 

"Castamere was burnt in 261, the same year Rhaegar was born." 

"And Lady Joanna went to court in 259, married your father in 263. Had twins some three years afterward. Did you never hear the rumors that she was the Mad King's paramour, once?" 

"My mother was a Lannister. The king would not have dared to touch her." 

"He was not called the Mad King because of his great judgment," Myrielle set her fork aside, picked up her tea to sip at it, "I, for one, do not believe the rumors. Ellyn Reyne's feud with his mother was reason enough. Yet there are still rumors. And Lord Tywin means to give me Castamere." 

There it was. Had Tyrion married a Crakehall or Marbrand or Lefford, he would inherit nothing. The greatest position he could hope for was to be Jaime's steward. Yet Cerenna would be the Lady of Highgarden. There was talk of Lancel inheriting the ruins of Tarbeck Hall, of Daven becoming Lord of the Crag, and Castamere was promised to Myrielle. The embroidery so carefully sewn into her dress was silver; he had thought it white, a nod to Sansa, but now that he thought of Castamere's sigil he knew the truth.  

Tyrion set aside the wine. Perhaps he had become too used to Cersei, roaring loudly to make her presence known, to mark what was hers. He had forgotten that lionesses were hunters as well, could kill a man without him ever realizing he was being stalked. It could be laid upon Sansa as well; wolves harried their prey, making their intentions clear, exhausting it before they attacked. It was not so with Myrielle.  

"If you will inherit Castamere, what do you want with me?" He asked, motioning to the scar across his face, meaning his entire body, "I am a dwarf." 

"I had not noticed." 

"You might marry Patten Payne, Donal Swyft, Lyman Lefford, Tyrre Farman. What do you want with me?" He sounded harsher than he intended, he knew, but Myrielle did not so much as flinch. She was not timid, Sansa was timid. Myrielle was clever, patient, a liar. She knew what men meant to see when they looked at her, the sweet, silent, perfect little wife. If he looked closely, the lion hung around her neck was ruby red, laid into silver. He had thought it a play on House Lannister's colors. It was not. She wore the sigil of House Reyne. 

"Or Frank Fossoway, Humfrey Hightower, Hobber Redwyne," she replied, "Dickon Tarley was even offered to me, but I did not want Horn Hill." 

"You want Castamere," would his father have seen it, if he were here? He had lived alongside the Reynes, had seen their banners in boyhood. Had Genna known? Did Genna know? Or had she, like Tyrion, thought Myrielle young and innocent. _A coat of red_ , "but any younger son could rule it in your name." 

"I do not want it ruled in my name," she set her cup onto the empty salad plate, "I want it mined in my name, but I can rule it well enough myself." 

"And you think, because I am a dwarf, I will not try to steal your castle?" 

"I think you are the son of Tywin Lannister, son to Tytos, son to Rohanne Webber, who was daughter to Lord Wyman Webber, and his wife Rebekkah Reyne, the only sibling of Lord Robert Reyne. Castamere is yours by right." 

"Wouldn't it be Jaime's, by right?" Now that he thought of it, had not a Tarbeck married into the Redwynes recently? A Tarbeck woman had been Lady Olenna's good-sister, if he was not mistaken. Had Stafford made plans for all of his children, bolstered by his sister's husband?

"Jaime was a member of the Kingsguard. He inherits nothing." 

Tyrion laughed at her, "yet he will rule the Rock." 

"Perhaps we will have the Rock as well," she shrugged, the sunlight glinting in her eyes. Tyrion could not help but wonder if this was what a lioness was meant to be, and he had simply stumbled over Cersei instead, "but I am content with Castamere. You see to the mining, I will see to the politicking. Am I not fair?" 

 "Could Donal Swyft not see to the mining?" 

"If I wished half the mines caved in, I would wed him instead. I trust that you will not be such a fool when draining a subterranean castle," she frowned at him, looked out over Lannisport as though it was hers and not Sansa's, "if you do not wish to marry me, tell me now. I will not take offense." 

"I will marry you. What fool would not?" 

"It must be after Cerenna marries," she mused, "and that will be late this year. Perhaps earlier than I thought, as she will leave soon." 

"Daven said she meant to stay here until just before the wedding." 

"My mother does not like a Stark so near her," Myrielle admitted, "we all mourn for my father, but her most of all. For her sake, they will likely leave for Highgarden soon." 

"Sansa did nothing to her." 

"Thus why I said my mother is upset, not that Lady Sansa is. If Robb Stark was in her place, it would not be so." Tyrion did not doubt the temper of a Lefford. It was only Myranda's honor that kept her from killing herself, only the honor of her house that kept her tears hidden from Sansa.

"The next year, then." 

"Or early the one after," she agreed, "it would do us well to have the mines open before we wed. I trust you could see to that." 

Tyrion drank more of the swill that had been wine, chewed his last bit of duck, "I could. Before I begin, you must send word to my father of our betrothal." 

"Borrow from your brother," Myrielle answered, "hire men to clear the rocks from the entrances to the mines, to rebuild the castles. Then I will write Lord Tywin." 

"I am certain my father will be thrilled." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter is terrible, you can tell me. I finished it late after suffering a migraine most of the day and taking a long nap. Whoever invented pain medication deserves a medal.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! I might make a few cosmetic changes tomorrow if I reread and think it looks too weird, but nothing major. I finally found a good actress for my Myrielle, so that's good.
> 
> Thank you all for the awesome comments! I know I tend to ramble when answering, but that just gives you more of a chance to discover where the story is going, right? Thank Davisk for the dates, 1thy_truth_is_won0 for the 'yes the Others are coming, and will feature in the sequel', and Baelorfan in general, because their comments are always awesome.
> 
> Next chapter: That surprise Meereen POV I mentioned earlier. I've never seen this POV before in any fic, so I suspect you'll either hate it or love it.


	37. Queen of Meereen

6/25/300

The meeting with the Yunkai'i had been uneventful, if unproductive. 

As Daenerys' dragons grew, so did her ambitions, and she was determined to free all of Slaver's Bay. It was only the Westerosi woman, the daughter of a woman of Norvos, had stayed her hands as the black dragon grew. All of Hidahr's pleading had been undone when the little Naathi girl who had once belonged to Kraznys mo Nakloz spoke in the name of the slaves. The dragon queen would have those cities, and their slaves, yet Arianne's words had given her pause. 

 _Nine years,_ Daenerys had decided, _and no more._  

But Yunkai and Astapor did not want to hear that she would only give them peace if they freed their slaves and came willingly to her rule. Hizdahr had seen how quickly the dragons grew; in nine years the mere sight of her black over their walls would send both cities to their knees. They knew this as well, and so they plotted war. If they could, they would kill the dragons while they were small. 

They had not been content to plot alone. Upon his arrival in Yunkai, they had given him thirty-and-three bed slaves. Chief among them had been an exotic woman of Yi Ti birth, with luscious black hair and flawless pale skin; a tall, graceful woman born in the Summer Isles with skin as dark as her hair; and a woman with silver hair and violet eyes, who had once been a noblewoman of Lys. All of them Hizdahr accepted and all of them he freed. He needed no slaves. How could a man desire stars when he had grasped the moon? 

He had requested and been given the king's apartments on the seventeenth floor, although he spent many more nights at the top of the pyramid in the silver queen's rooms. Daenerys had become fond of him, he hoped, but she did not like the windowless chambers at the heart of her pyramid. It was to these rooms he went when he came to Meereen in the dead of night. The halls were dimly lit by torches, wide enough to fit ten men walking abreast. It was little matter for the Unsullied captain and his two men to follow him through the halls. 

Hizdahr came up short when he rounded the final corner to his chambers and found the corridor filled with the massive bulk of Daenerys' black dragon. To the dragon's right, a single Unsullied stood guard, his position mute at best. After taking in the hall, the Unsullied captain spoke, "what is this?" 

"The queen is within," the captain nodded shortly, then turned to Hizdahr. 

"You will be safe with my brother. I must report to Grey Worm." Hizdahr agreed, and allowed them to leave. He had little faith in the ability of a single Unsullied, but the dragon would sooner bring the stones down around their heads than allow his mother to be harmed. He opened the door, watching Drogon's eyes all the while, and tentatively entered. 

The room was dimly lit, the rare candle flickering over statues and tapestries which told of the glory of Old Ghis. Daenerys had never appreciated the decorations, although she had tolerated all save those showing the destruction of Valyria. Yet it was not his wife's enjoyment of art that concerned him now. Hizdahr made no effort to hide his presence as he entered, lighting several candles and letting his shoes drop to the floor loudly when he removed them.  

When at last he came to the bedroom, he found Daenerys where he had expected her, curled up in the silken sheets of his bed. The white hrakkar skin was more of a surprise, but he asked no questions as he approached. As he came to the massive black oak posts at the head of the bed, he found a pair of violet eyes staring up at him from under the hrakkar. She said nothing, only watched. 

The creature in his bed looked more like a startled filly than his fierce dragon queen, and Hizdahr moved slowly as he reached forward to gently pull the sheets back. He had meant to sit on the bed next to her, but as he drew the blankets away he stilled. The quiet of the room pressed in around him as he realized that Daenerys had not simply slept in his bed. 

She was still dressed in the red silks she had become so fond of, cut like the leathers her khalasar wore; still wore her hair in the complex Dothraki braids that marked her a khal; still was draped in Ghiscari jewels he had gifted her. Most notable, however, was the babe clutched in her arms. _Rhaego._ He knew the babe by name, but not sight. Daenerys was protective of her daughter, careful of the people around her, and he had never been permitted to be in the girl's presence. Yet the babe could only be hers; adorned with silver hair and violet eyes as she was. 

Hizdahr lowered the blankets back to the bed slowly. When he pulled his eyes from the babe to seek Daenerys' gaze, he saw the tears for the first time. His wife did not pull away as he sat on the bed, careful to keep his movements steady. Despite never being more than a fair horseman, he knew better than to startle anything with eyes like hers. He had once seen a colt fall backward, crushing it's rider, and he had no wish to repeat the experience with a dragon in the horse's place. 

"Radiance?"  

"I am sorry to have disturbed your rooms." 

Someone was dead, he thought, someone closer to her than her freedmen or her Unsullied soldiers. If he could not see her babe sheltering in her arms, he would have feared it was her. No. Had Rhaego been dead, he would have returned to ruins afire. Daenerys was fierce, it was true, but she used her fire to protect. She had a soft heart, his dragon queen, and she made for a kind ruler, if not one skilled in politicking. That fire was gone now, having failed in it's purpose. The pride in her eyes had disappeared in the depth of her tears. 

"I am your husband, you could not disturb my rooms if you tried," she could have broken the vases and burnt the tapestries, ripped the bed into bits and melted the statues into molten metals; so long as her eyes had kept their fire, "what has happened?" 

"A girl, a little girl of four years," she clutched Rhaego tighter to her side. Her voice was raw and broken, "Rhaegal killed her. He burned her alive outside her father's hut." 

Daenerys did not sob, but tears streamed down her face.  

Hizdahr leaned toward her, and when his hand touched her shoulder a cracked sob came from her throat. She reached for him, wrapped herself around his waist and allowed herself to break. Keeping Rhaego in the curve of her body, she wept against him. For his part, he brushed the fabric of his tokar off of his shoulder and pulled himself closer to her, trying to keep Rhaego comfortable and quiet.  

It was only when the first true sob broke from her throat that the babe stirred, and in the interest of allowing Daenerys to mourn he reached for her. He managed to collect her into his lap, holding her as he had held his children when they were this small. Hizdahr knew no nursery songs other than those originating in the lore of Old Ghis, thus it was those he sang to her. The dragon's daughter stilled as he sang softly into the darkness, her mother's crying muffled by the sweet song of war. In that moment, he was glad that his wife had turned down his offer to teach her Ghiscari. 

Darkness told no time, and Hizdahr did not know how long they had lain there before Daenerys' tears exhausted her. Overwhelmed by the stress and horror of the day, she slept, curled against him, with her daughter clinging to his chest. Little Rhaego was tired as well, but she fought the sleep that tried to claim her, squirming an crying softly in her attempts to keep herself awake. Sleep was not on Hizdahr's mind, too wary of harming the babe or her mother starting awake, but his journey wore on him as well. 

Once Rhaego began to settle, he watched the flickering candle to keep himself awake. Eventually he rested his head against the wooden base behind him and closed his eyes for only a moment. 

That had been his intent, at least, but instead he woke to whispered voices in the outer rooms of his chambers. Worry crossed his mind, as did the dragon asleep outside his door. No one came through the doors, though he waited many minutes, and eventually his patience wore thin. Shifting so that Daenerys would not wake easily, he kept his voice low, "Missandei." 

Instantly the voices silenced. It was not the Naathi girl who came padding around the corner, but Arianne Martell, dressed in an orange tokar and sandals like those the freedmen wore. Her feet were silent on the carpet. Before Hizdahr could come up with a response to her presence, brief bickering brought her companion forward, the man who called himself Daenerys' nephew. He, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed to be caught sneaking about the king's rooms. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"After she rode off with Drogon last night, no one could find her. We looked again this morning. Ser Jorah had been ready to send out a search party before I suggested we look here." 

"The green dragon, Rhaegal, where is it?" 

"We fed it cattle and left it in the courtyard," Arianne told him, "Viserion could not fight her. If we wish to capture her we need Drogon." 

Hizdahr was dubious, "you want Drogon to fight it's sibling?" 

"There is nothing else. I tried to lure Rhaegal under the pyramid, but she knows what I planned." 

"Daenerys will not like her children fighting, no matter what Rhaegal has done. Have pigs roasted and hung around the place she dens in. It is said that pig flesh is most similar to human, perhaps Rhaegal will accept them instead of flying off again." 

Arianne and Aegon looked at each other, "it might work. She has spent more time than usual in the courtyard of late." 

"And if it does not," Arianne agreed, "we can always wake Daenerys then. Go to the cooks, I will find more pigs." 

They rushed away, and the room was silent again. It seemed that the queen's handmaidens had kept away, or had not yet found her. As Rhaego began to stir, Hizdahr gently untangled himself from Daenerys and stood, carrying the babe. When he opened the door, he found that the dragon was still lying in his hall, and that Ser Barristan had replaced the Unsullied. The knight stared at the child in his arms, and Hizdahr used the opportunity to speak first, "send for the wetnurse," he instructed, and ducked back into his chambers before the knight could argue. 

Rocking a sleepy Rhaego gently, he lit the candles in his rooms, letting the flames light what the sun could not. He made a bed on the low, flat chair, wrapping blankets into walls to prevent Rhaego from falling. Hizdahr meant to rest her in it while he changed out of the tokar he had worn yesterday, but he heard the rustling in the outer room before he had the chance. He found the wet nurse there, a Dothraki woman with black hair and wary eyes, joined by Missandei, who had brought a plate of food for the queen. 

While she set out the figs and eggs, the wet nurse curled herself into the softest seat in the room and took Rhaego from him. Both women were glaring at him. Hizdahr wrote it off to having too many worries and too little sleep, and went to change. The man servant that normally dressed him was missing, but the clothes he wore were wrinkled and askew, and smelt of Yunkai. He chose a burgundy tokar and wrapped it around himself well enough, pulled sandals onto his feet, and went back to Rhaego. 

Although the wet nurse said nothing, he could feel her disapproval as he lifted Rhaego from her arms, the babe bubbling as he gathered her against his chest. Grasping hands felt the fabric of his tokar, the girl was curious and bold. Hizdahr wished that he had the toys his children had played with, blocks and buckets of things too big to put in their mouths and easy to hold. Instead he held her as he stole eggs and an orange from the food Missandei had brought.  

"Here," she leaned toward the table, trying to pull at the plate, and Hizdahr let her take the spoon she grabbed. He broke open the orange, and offered her a bit, plucking the spoon from her other hand when she grabbed at it and shoved it into her mouth, "you will like this better than a spoon. Does your mother let you eat fruit?" 

"Mai?" She was not old enough to really talk, and he suspected she knew more than a few words of Dothraki, but her meaning was clear enough. 

"Your mother is asleep. Do you want more orange?"Rhaego considered him with her dark violet eyes. 

"I eat," she reached for it, and Hizdahr pulled it back, just out of range, earning a scowl from the little girl. 

"It's an orange," he showed her the fruit, "do you want to eat the orange?" 

"I eat orange," she frowned, "Qilōni issi ao?" 

He broke off another slice of the orange and gave it to her. A child of Old Ghis, Hizdahr did not speak the best Valyrian, but he understood enough, "I am Hizdahr zo Loraq, your mother's husband." 

Rhaego chewed on the orange, appearing to consider his words, "you... mai khaleesi?" 

Only two words of the three were familiar, and when he made the connection he had no reply. He was, in a way, Daenerys' khaleesi. No man that had seen her dragons would not name her a king, as khals were, but his claim to the throne was through marriage, "in a way, I suppose." 

"Khal, khaleesi, khalakki?" 

"I am not your father, little one," Hizdahr cut into the egg with his fork, Rhaego's eyes following the fork even as she munched on the orange, "your father was Khal Drogo." 

"Mai knows," she waved her arms as far above her head as she could, "ave big and brave. Ave khal." 

Missandei had brought warm tea, likely to comfort Daenerys, but he poured a bit for himself and set it far from the child in his lap. He scooped up a bit of the egg on the spoon he had stolen from her and offered it to her, letting her wrap her fist around the handle, "do you want some egg?" 

"Yes," she scowled when he tried to keep a grip on the spoon to steady it, stopped to scowl at him, "no, I eat." 

He let go, and she promptly spilled the egg on the way to her mouth. Rhaego looked as though she might cry, but Hizdahr plucked the egg from his clothes and dropped it on the table. When he offered her a fresh bite of the egg, she did not protest when he helped hold the spoon. She chewed slowly, and then reached for the orange again, pointing at it until he tore off another piece and gave it to her. 

She was mid-chew when she giggled, utterly carefree, and said, "aena, Mai." 

That was how Hizdahr discovered Daenerys. She stood in the doorway between the bedchamber and the dining room, barefoot and wrapped in her hrakkar skin, looking both exhausted and surprised. Instead of moving, she blinked at them, as if expecting that she was dreaming. When Rhaego made a fuss, Hizdahr gave her more orange without taking his eyes from her mother. 

"What are you doing?" Her voice was raw and hoarse, her hair escaping her braids to fly wildly around her face.  

"We are having breakfast," if she had Drogon attack him, he would hold Rhaego in front of him, Hizdahr decided. She could not burn him if he held her daughter, "would you like to join us, Radiance?" 

"Orange, Mai," Rhaego held the fruit out to her mother, and Daenerys stepped forward to take it, face softening as she leaned down to speak to her daughter, "orange." 

"Yes, raqiarzy," she kissed her daughter's forehead, "that is an orange. Did you miss me?" 

The girl giggled, "Mai sleep," she pointed up at Hizdahr, "we eat orange." 

"And egg," he prompted. 

"Egg," she agreed. Daenerys padded around the table to sit opposite them, plucking one of the figs from the table. She still watched Hizdahr as though he too had turned into a dragon in the night. Rhaego seemed to not notice, instead shaking his arm, "more egg." 

So there they sat, the fierce dragon queen watching as he fed her daughter from his plate, he becoming increasingly worried at her stare, and Rhaego oblivious to it all. 

In the darkness of the corridor, a dragon growled low in it's throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what do you think?
> 
> I had to have a Meereenese POV, and I didn't think there was anyone better qualified than Hizdahr to replace Ser Barristan's POV. 
> 
> Massive thanks to Baelorfan for being my only commenter last chapter! You guys always worry me on Tyrion chapters, I don't know why. This is the second time I've gotten fewer reviews on one of his POVs, do you want me to cut down on them?
> 
> Next chapter: Jaime!


	38. Kingslayer VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has begun to wonder if Tyrion got the better of the deal. No one could separate him from his wits unless they cut off his head.

7/2/300

Jaime was beginning to think that he should have remained in the Kingsguard. 

Capitulating to Genna last night had solved a few of his problems. Except that now the large, ridiculous painting of Tywin on the right side of the door to his solar had been joined by a large, ridiculous painting of Ser Jason on the left. The two men looked so much alike they might as well have been the same person, save for their eyes. Twice Jaime had checked to make sure they were different people, only to be assured they were, and still he doubted it. Meanwhile, Tyrion had set paintings of their lady mother and Uncle Gerion in his solar, and no one had bothered to protest his decision.  

Septa Lynora had been humming around for days, professing concern that Dorna would need a new septa, as Sansa would not want to share. Sansa had known nothing of this request, but Genna thought that the girl was worried of losing her position as Septa to the Lady of Casterly Rock. Tyrion had clarified: she was worried about losing her position at Casterly Rock to a woman of Northern birth. Jaime had no idea how to solve that, but once Tyrion was involved there was one fewer septa present in his solar to see his new paintings.  

He had been so pleased by that development that had invited his brother to his solar for a morning drink to celebrate.  

"Are you certain someone did not just paint father with emerald eyes?" 

"That is what I thought," Jaime agreed, "even the color of their tunics is the same." 

"Red _is_  a Lannister color," Tyrion mused. 

"I asked Genna and Lady Myranda, both agreed that this is what Ser Jason looked like." 

"He has our mother's eyes." 

"Cersei's eyes, I thought." 

"Yes, and yours too, but you got them from mother," Tyrion set his glass on the desk, "speaking of Lady Myranda, Garlan Tyrell's party should arrive within the week." 

"Ah, I had almost forgotten to thank you for that," Sansa still did not know the reason that the Lefford woman avoided her, and Jaime did not mean for her to learn, "I believe Sansa will be happier without her here." 

"All I did was send a letter," Tyrion waved him off, "and I did it for Sansa, not you. Poor girl doesn't need more reminders of her family hanging about." 

"Genna assured me that Lady Myranda has been nothing but polite." 

"To the wife of the heir to Casterly Rock? I can't imagine any other outcome," a knock sounded on the door, and Tyrion took the chance to fill his wine glass. 

"Lord Jaime?" Maester Creulen gently closed the door behind him, approached his desk with a little scroll in his hand, "a letter has arrived from Queen Cersei.  

"Thank you, maester," Jaime took the letter, gently unfolding it, aware that the old man had chosen to hover nearby rather than returning to his duties. The handwriting belonged to Pycelle, in the neat print of the Citadel rather than Cersei's excited scribble, but the words were hers. 

"What does our sweet sister say?" 

"She is coming to the Rock for Tommen's nameday." 

Tyrion nearly choked on his wine, "now?" 

"It says she'll arrive in three weeks."  

"Tommen's nameday isn't for three months!" 

The look the brothers shared was not missed by the maester, but he could not know what it meant. Even here, in their childhood home, no one knew of the twin's secret. Jaime looked up at the maester, "thank you for bringing this, Maester Creulen. You are free to return to your duties." 

"It was my pleasure, my lord," he tottered toward the door slowly, but Tyrion had the sense to keep his mouth shut until he was gone. He drank deeply from his wine instead, then set the empty glass aside. 

"Sansa will not like this." 

"I cannot turn her away." 

Tyrion gave him a sharp look, "because she is the queen, or because she is your lover?" 

"Neither," Jaime scowled, "because I love her." 

"You are married." 

"Do you think Sansa loves me?" He had not gone to her bed since she announced her pregnancy, and she had not come to him, "our sister killed her father, her brother killed our uncle. It is likely that she holds us responsible for the deaths of her younger brothers. She married me because she had to, not because she wanted too." 

"Yet she is your wife, and you have a duty to her." 

"A duty to give her children and provide for her. Ours was not a love match, you want me to set aside Cersei because father married me to a girl half my age? I have loved Cersei since we were in our mother's womb." 

"I want you to think about the damage this could cause to your wife. She has already lost one babe, do you mean to make her lose another?" 

"Cersei would never do that. It is Joffrey's fault that Sansa lost her babe, even father agreed." 

"Your babe, not just Sansa's," Tyrion seemed dubious, "did you listen to nothing the maester said? It is not good for Sansa to be stressed during her pregnancy. Do you think Cersei will let her run the Rock as she pleases and do nothing to interfere?" 

"She let Genna do as she wished." 

"Genna is our aunt, a Lannister by birth. She trusts Genna. Do you think she has the same respect for Sansa?" 

Jaime knew Cersei well. She thought of the Rock as her home, she had grown up here, and she had been the Lady of the Rock for many years after their mother had died. Before she married Robert. She would see Sansa's work as a mockery of what the Rock should be, of what Cersei and Genna and Joanna had done. The southern kingdoms took few Northern brides, and Sansa had not been herself in King's Landing. Not the she-wolf who now ruled the Rock. 

"I will speak to Cersei when she arrives," he told Tyrion, "she will let Sansa rule as she pleases." 

"Jaime," Tyrion shook his head slowly, "Cersei did not even let father rule in peace. Why would she do so for Sansa?" 

"She will if I ask." 

His brother sighed heavily, "and who do you intend to tell Sansa that Joffrey's mother will be here in a fortnight?" 

"I will tell her." 

The brothers stared at each other over the desk. 

"Later." 

"If you insist," Tyrion climbed from his chair, "I will go and prepare a second feast. At least Cerenna will be gone by the time Cersei arrives." 

There was criticism somewhere there, but Jaime did not want to sit around trying to decide if Tyrion was attempting to insult him or not. If he was half as clever as his brother, he would already have a retort prepared, but, as it was, he was happy to be released from the conversation. He collected his sword from where it leaned on the desk and followed Tyrion to the hallway. 

Although the Rock was nearly two leagues long, the Lannister family rooms were overlooking the natural shelf of the Rock. Clashing steel from the training yard below could be heard in Jaime's solar, and reaching the main courtyard was only one relatively short flight of stairs. Most of the men training in the yard were with their squires, or were young guardsmen, but few looked up as he passed. 

Jaime was in the yard often enough that he was a common sight, and, more importantly, he knew where to find Daven and Willem. A close cousin of the current Lord Lannister could claim a good position in the yard, and Daven had taken advantage of that. As he approached, he found Daven coaching Willem and Tyrion's squire in their swordsmanship. The boys were fighting with wooden training swords, blocking each other's blows with shields and helping one another up when their opponent fell. 

"They look better than before," he said as he came to Daven's side.  

"I've had them working harder than before," Daven agreed, "I told them whoever wins today's match can help train Prince Tommen tomorrow." 

"I was hoping they would need a break soon. I would like to duel you." 

Daven had a grin that reminded him too much of Tyrion's, "with your left hand?" 

"Unless you've discovered a way to regrow bones." 

The knight looked to the squires for a moment, then nodded, "your left hand, then. But we'll use training swords." 

"I have not used a wooden sword since I was ten." 

"Not for your sake," Daven grinned, "for mine. Lord Tywin would have my head if I cut off your other hand. Willem! Josmyn! Go get water and rest for a bit. Give me your swords." The squires did as they were told, and Daven handed Jaime one of their swords, "here." 

The sword was heavy in his hand as he caught it awkwardly, fumbling with his golden hand and the instinct to grab it in his swordhand. He took a careful grip on the hilt, as he had half a hundred times in private. The wood was lighter than his sword, more evenly balanced. Jaime played with his grip on it until he felt confident in it, then looked up to find Daven waiting. 

He missed his first swing. 

Instead of meeting, Jaime's sword swung too high, and Daven landed a blow to his ribs. His cousin winced with him, and stepped back. This would have been a dance for Jaime, once. He had felt alive with a sword in his hands. He could remember the day he beat the Master of Arms at the Rock. The other squires had laughed, but afterward even the knights held a new respect for him.  

This time he watched Daven's sword rather than his eyes. 

It was a squire's trick, one discouraged by the knights, but it won him one hit. Daven's blow glanced off his sword, but put him off balance. When his sword swung back, Jaime was not prepared to meet it. It landed on his shoulder, lighter than the one before. He didn't know if he should be grateful that Daven was not trying to hurt him or irritated that he needed to try to not hurt him. They were only using wooden swords. 

Again, they closed. 

Jaime caught the first strike on the wooden sword, then ducked under the second. His legs still worked, even if his hand did not. The sword made a dull noise when it struck Daven's leather tunic, but he had put too much effort into reaching his opponent and forgotten where his sword had gone. As he was well inside Daven's range, his cousin had little trouble catching him with the backswing of the sword on his leg. 

This time he hit the ground. 

It was some combination of being off-balance in an attempt to avoid the hit, his own strike, and Daven's momentum, but Jaime had not been so easily knocked down since he was a page. He swore sharply, but he knew that was as much to hide the embarrassment as it was from the pain. Daven strode forward to help him up, but, before he could reach him, the clatter of hooves distracted them both.  

The horse that had made them was a bay courser, covered in sweat and panting heavily as it galloped through the gate leading into the courtyard, making enough noise to draw the attention of half the Rock. It's rider pulled up sharply in the light, and flung himself off the horse. He made for the steps to the keep at a run. A knight met him half-way up the stairs, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other outstretched to stop him. Jaime could not hear what they said, but as he watched, the knight turned and pointed to him. 

For his part, Jaime was still lying on the ground. He turned to accept Daven's hand and pick himself up off the ground. By the time he turned around, the man had vaulted the fence to the training yard in his rush. Some poor squire had grabbed the exhausted horse he left behind and was leading it to the water trough.  

"Lord Jaime!" As he approached, Jaime could see the bright green arrow on his doublet, the sigil of House Sarsfield, "Lord Jaime, there's been an attack at Sarsfield!" 

"An attack? By who?" As far as he knew, all of the armies had settled down long ago, and Sarsfield was no vulnerable port town. Anyone who wanted to launch an attack there would need to come through the mountains, and only one commander had ever led a surprise mission so deep within the mountains. Robb Stark would not endanger his sister... would he? 

"A lioness, my lord," he was breathless from his ride, "they startled the horses and when Ser Melwyn fell she pounced on him." 

"There hasn't been a lion that far east in five hundred years," Daven said, frowning. 

"Is Ser Melwyn dead?" 

"No, he lives, but it is a near thing. Lord Sarsfield asks that you send men to help track down the lioness and her pride." 

"How many were seen?" 

"Only the one who attacked Ser Melwyn, but the old tales say that they travel in groups. Lord Sarsfield believes that there are more, perhaps even a male. He requests men to help search for them." 

"I will send a dozen men," Sarsfield was large enough to protect it's own smallfolk, but if the lions ventured away they would need more hunters to keep the trail, "come, I mean to discuss this with my brother." 

He turned toward the nearest stairs into the keep, only to find them occupied.  

Sansa stood overlooking the courtyard, the ever-present Myrielle just behind her. As they came up the stairs, Sansa met them, her face still as stone. She folded her hands in front of her, detached in a way he had not seen in weeks. Jaime smiled at her, tried to jest, "have you come to see your husband fail at swordplay, Sansa?" 

"You did very well, my lord," Tyrion was going to kill him, Jaime reflected. He could already hear the lecture, and he did not yet know what he had done. "I have heard that you received word from the queen, announcing her impending arrival. I would like to ask if that’s true." 

Genna had told her. Or Tyrion himself. It made little difference, for Tyrion would have been the one to tell Genna. Jaime wondered for a moment if it could have been unintentional, or if he was deluding himself again. He had already admitted to himself that Tyrion would have made a far more clever lord than he had, what was admitting that he had been outsmarted once more? 

"Cersei will arrive near a fortnight from now. She wishes to see Tommen on his nameday, but she will not interfere with your running of the Rock," Sansa did not have to speak for him to know that she did not believe him, "I will speak with her and Genna about it." 

It was likely that Genna could do more than he. 

"As you wish," Sansa stopped the curtsey before it had truly begun, but even the motion made Jaime feel guilty, "I will see to a welcoming feast." 

"You do not have to do that." 

"Yes," she smiled sadly, "I do." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry this took so long! The weekend was spent driving eight hours one way to a shelter to pick up a dog on a kill list. I ended up taking an impromptu day off work to make sure we got him in time. His name is Robin now, and I can provide pictures upon request.
> 
> Anyway... here is that lion foreshadowing payoff. Let's see what they find. A bit more of our mystery plotline too. 
> 
> Again, thank everyone for the comments! I didn't pull any of Tyrion's chapters, so I hope you like them. I always worry about writing characters who are smarter than I am. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa! I hope to make it a long one.


	39. Lady Lannister IX

Not all that long ago, Roslin might have become Sansa’s good-sister.

It was Myrielle who had mentioned it, when Sansa mentioned how nervous her new handmaiden looked, but once she had it was impossible to unsee. Sansa had seen Walder Frey’s daughters during the trip south, when they had stopped at the Twins with the King, and she could not deny that Roslin would have been on a short list of girls to be considered. The Rosby girl was of an age with Robb, and, although she was no Queen Margaery, she had a delicate nose and a slight figure. Compared to her sisters and nieces she was rather pretty.

It was Jeyne who seemed most glad of her company, the Riverlander girl a welcome face among the many Lannister women. They had taken to sitting off with Joy, immersed in card games and trading tales from their homelands. Dorna had no interest in stories and less in cards, but she seemed content to fuss over her daughter and chat with the septa as she sewed.

Today, Sansa was glad that none of them were buzzing over her,

“Your aunt sent a letter,” Myrielle mused, a wrinkled bit of parchment in hand. Unlike the ones on Sansa’s desk, it was small enough to have been carried by a raven. Sansa did not even look up from her reading.

“Lady Lysa? What did she say?”

“She thanks you for your well-wishes for her marriage and new son. As you are also a new bride, she offers to send a maid from the Vale to serve as your handmaiden, to aid you in your new duties as wife to a Lord Paramount,” Myrielle’s silver sleeve brushed over the papers on her desk as she sat the new letter next to her.

Sansa resisted the urge to sigh. She did not want the attention of the others in the room. While she had no protest to Tyrion keeping the accounts for the mines, as was traditional at the Rock, she was still left to run the remainder of the household. Lady Genna, who had done so before her arrival, had left her without so much as a walkthrough of the work. Joy said that her aunt hoped she would fail, Myrielle said that Genna was testing her, but Sansa did not need her help. Or Lysa’s help. Or anyone’s help.

Even in the North, lord's daughters were taught to run castles, and she was a daughter of Winterfell.

Myrielle was perched in the chair to her right, the hem of her linen dress was too short for propriety, the sleeves too long for comfort in the heat. Her voice was so soft that if anyone else had spoken Sansa would have wondered if there was some secret she was not privy too, “is that all she says?”

Sansa had not admitted it aloud, but she was glad for Myrielle's help. In the Westerlands, the duties were more detached from the work, she was sent letters rather than workers, reports rather than stories. She could have managed on her own, but the elder girl made it easier.

“Generally.”

“You did not come here to tell me that?” Myrielle only spoke when she must, and a letter from an aunt was not all that important. Sansa could have read it herself.

"Ser Bryan wishes to know what you wish to do with the food rescued from the burnt silos."

Sansa slowly set aside the letter written by Ser Osmund. She had read it three times already, knowing all the while that she should have it sent up to Jaime, but unwilling to actually summon someone to take it, "is there nowhere to store it?" 

She meant,  _could he not do it himself?_

"His questions seems to be a concern over if we should continue to use the oldest supplies, or if we should use these, as they are now out of the order."

It was a fair question, if rather mundane. If he placed them in with the new supplies and they spoil, they might ruin the entire silo. Better she bear the responsibility for that than him. 

Sansa leaned back slightly, trying to remember the records she had looked at just yesterday, "we can have them put in with the silo currently open, so they will be used quickly. There can't be much left, the silo was nearly burnt to the ground."

Myrielle made a note in the margin of the letter with her left hand, as Arya had once, so long ago, and sat it aside for Sansa to dictate a proper letter at a later time, "there is also the matter of the leather the servants are sending to be repurposed."

Sometimes Sansa wondered if Myrielle was a witch, such as those in Old Nan's tales. She was fairly certain that no letter had arrived to that effect, and she herself had heard nothing of it, despite being the person who needed to approve such a thing. She brushed her hair from her face and queried, "I had not heard of it."

"It has been nearly a year since the last time it was done. My maid needs new shoes, as does Jeyne," Sansa glanced over at her friend, too busy with her game to notice. Her shoes did look rather worn, and Sansa was instantly ashamed not to have noticed. After returning from where ever she had been in King's Landing, Jeyne had asked for little and less, "if you wish, I will have those who need it fitted and their current things repurposed. Some are wearing little more than patches sewn together."

"Is there someone for the task?"

"The Rock has a leathermaker, and I know a maid who can coordinate the fittings and collect the old things."

"Good, send her to me tomorrow. I will explain to her."

"There is also the matter of your armor."

"My..." Sansa had avoided the topic issofar, but there was no reason to bring a leathermaker up twice, "armor. Should I visit the leathermaker?"

"I would suggest a smith."

"My mother's armor was made of leather," granted, she had never actually expected an assault on Winterfell.

"I am told most Northernmen's armor is made of leather."

"That is true," her father's was, at least. It was not that he did not have steel armor, only that he preferred not to wear it, and rarely had the occasion. Septa Mordane had said that he wore it during the war with Balon Greyjoy.

"Even lady's armor is made of steel here, although it will be lighter than a knight's armor," Myrielle assured her. Not for the first time Sansa wondered if the heavy braids of the Westerlands were an attempt to ward off the worst of the heat, as she pushed her own hair back again, "I am told that Lady Joanna wore armor as fine as Prince Rhaegar's own."

Sansa thought of the Trident, and Arya, and rubies in a flooded ford.

"I will send a letter to the smith as well, sometime next week might work, I suppose," she would rather it be then, as it would give her an excuse to spend more time away from the queen. The way Myrielle's eyes followed her, she must know what she thought, but she said nothing. "Has anyone else written with news of an impending disaster?”

"Ser Bryan did not mention an impending disaster," for once, Myrielle seemed half-amused, "my brother managed to create that fairly quickly. But no, the wine and mead are brewing properly and the trade in Lannisport is going well, although there is the matter of the Payne's visit."

That had arrived yesterday, notable for missing the weekly reports from the castle's staff. Sansa had spent hours pouring over the wording of her letter before giving up and summoning Myrielle, "I remember. They want one of Lord Payne's grandsons to foster at the Rock."

"And they seem to think that sending his youngest son's bride to visit your court will win them favors," her soon-to-be good-sister agreed, "their castle is close to the Rock. It would be a good place to foster one of your own sons."

"The decision of where to foster our children belongs to Jaime."

"My cousin is fond of you," Myrielle managed to say it for the hundredth time without sounding like she was repeating herself, "he will take your opinion on fostering the children into consideration."

"And when sons are fostered at the Rock, it makes it more likely for my sons to be fostered with their fathers. You told me."

"You do not have to decide now. They will not arrive for a fortnight."

The queen would be arriving before that. Not for the first time, Sansa wished that she could eject visitors from her castle. She could, she supposed, remove the Payne's or similar visitors, but not Jaime's sister. Perhaps she would test that. There had to be some knight or singer that she could find distasteful and request that Jaime send away. Tyrion would do it for her, even if Jaime would not, she thought.

"Myrielle is right," Dorna mentioned, blushing when they both turned to look at her, "Lord Jaime was sent to Crakehall to squire, and Lord Roland was sent to the Rock. It was a great honor for Lord Sumner."

"The Rock's heir is usually fostered out to a major bannerman," Joy agreed, "but Sansa's second son will be sent to the North. Lord Tywin might keep his eldest grandson at the Rock."

“One less son for you to raise,” Septa Lynora was watching as Janei pulled at Joy’s skirts, but she made no move to stop her. It was Dorna who leaned down to collect her daughter, scolding her for pulling at her cousin’s dress.

“Why would I not be raising my sons?” The septa had acted oddly of late. She almost seemed to be avoiding Sansa, and even when she was forced to be nearby, she spoke little. Perhaps Sansa would test Jaime’s patience using her, she was certainly displeasing enough.

“I did not mean you, my Lady,” the septa flushed sharply, “I only meant-  Joy does not seem to be overly fond of children.”

Lost, Sansa turned to look at Myrielle. She had watched the conflicted emotionlessly, but she had the answer to Sansa’s inquisitive look, “many base-born Lannisters are sent to the Citadel or to the sept. After their training has finished, they return to the Rock, or serve in other ways.”

“I don’t understand. They return?”

“Septa Lynora is a daughter of Ser Jason and a serving girl,” Myrielle explained patiently, nodding at the woman, “half-sister to Lady Joanna and my own father. Maester Pycelle is a son of Lord Damon, half-brother to Gerold the Golden. There are base-born Lannisters who remain in the sept as well, serving the gods.”

“And Joy is to be sent to become a septa?” Sansa did not have to look at Joy to know that she would sooner join the Citadel. Myrielle frowned slightly.

“That decision will be made by Lord Tywin. The rumors vary, but no one knows his mind.”

“What do you think?” Joy challenged, as she stared at Myrielle.

“I think that the Rock needs more septas, and more loyal ones at that. But as I said, I do not know Lord Tywin’s mind.”

“Why do we need more septas?” Dorna asked, “Lynora does a wonderful job with the children. She raised Genna’s and my own well enough, and at the same time. Why would it be different for yours and Sansa’s?”

“If she raises Lord Jaime and Tyrion’s children, who will raise Queen Cersei’s grandchildren?” Myrielle answered softly, “Queen Margaery is already heavy with child, I expect she means to give the king several heirs.”

Sansa did not want to deal with the look on Joy’s face. The poor girl looked crushed, while Septa Lynora looked a bit too smug for her taste. She had enough to deal with herself, she did not need to be concerned about Joy’s future when her own might be in danger. Granted, if the queen treated Lannister bastards the way she spoke of Jon, Joy might not have any better time than Sansa would.

Not for the first time, Sansa wished she could be more selfish. It might work, if she could stop seeing Arya every time she looked at Joy. Arya had been treated badly enough already. Sansa had wanted to apologize ever since word came from Riverrun that Arya was safe, but every time she picked up a quill words did not seem to be enough. How to explain all that she had done, and apologize for all that Arya already knew as well?

She collected the letter from Ser Osmund, Lady leaping to her feet as Sansa stood.

“I must take this to Jaime,” she said, when every head in the room turned to her, “he will want to read it. I believe that I will try to lunch with him as well. Try not interrupt unless something is set on fire - again.”

She could hear Roslin and Jeyne giggle as she left the room, but she had not meant it for them. If she was lucky, Myrielle would send the news to Ser Bryan herself, saving Sansa the effort, and getting rid of Daven’s mistake as quickly as possible. It was not that she  _wanted_ to see Jaime, but it would be best if she did before his sister arrived. 

Jaime solar was a floor below her own, as he would have more unusual visitors. Lady Dorna had said that it would be improper to have non-family members lurking about the Lannister quarters, but that had only made Sansa wonder what her father would have thought of her marrying a Lannister. He had believed that it was important to build strong bonds with smallfolk and nobles alike, to make them feel as though you truly cared about them. Then again, the Rock was easily three times the size of Winterfell. An argument could be made that there were simply too many people to form ties with them all.

The guardsman at her heels was still ever-present, but it was not he who made anyone who Sansa encountered keep a wide berth. Servants scuttled against the walls and knights bowed slightly and sped up to keep away from Lady. When she had first arrived in the Rock, the thin linen dresses had made her feel naked, even if they were the only reasonable garment for the heat, but no one dared look twice so long as the direwolf was beside her. The embroidered dragonflies on Sansa's purple skirts danced as she walked, and even the slight breeze they created was welcome in the encompassing heat inside the Rock.

Even outside the door Sansa could hear the argument. 

Not the words, but the intentions behind them. She smiled sweetly at the knight who was guarding the door - in leather armor, she noticed - and he leaned away from Lady as he knocked at the door, "Lord Jaime, your lady wife to see you."

A pause.

Then scuffling.

The door opened to reveal a irritated Tyrion, who bowed slightly as he waved her in. He seemed less drunk than usual, although Sansa wasn't convinced that it was a good sign. Like Sansa, Jaime had chosen a room with wide windows to be his solar, partially for the light, but mostly for the breeze that cooled the entire room. Jaime was sitting behind his desk, a large book askew in front of him, parchment spread across most of the desk, inkpot in danger of falling, and several quills lying on the floor. 

She must have looked confused, for as she nudged the ink back to safety, Tyrion volunteered, "we were just discussing Cersei's quarters."

"And the recent lion attack at Sarsfield."

"Is there any news on Ser Melwyn?"

"Not yet," Tyrion answered, "the maesters still think he will live, but until he wake up they are not certain. As you are now occupying the rooms Cersei kept before marrying Robert, I have proposed that Cersei be given the best guest quarters, on the floor above our rooms."

"Of course," Sansa agreed. There had been talk of giving those to Tommen, but Jaime had insisted he sleep in the squire's rooms instead, "she is the queen. Would you like me to have them freshened?"

Neither brother answered.

They were staring at each other over the desk. When the silence grew long, Tyrion spoke, "Jaime has suggested that Cersei be allowed to use the rooms usually belonging to the Lady of the Rock. Formerly our lady mother's rooms."

"Are those not connected to Lord Tywin's rooms?"

"The door locks," Jaime insisted. He broke his gaze from his brother to look at her. She must have seemed baffled, for his voice softened, "and father is not here. I do not want my sister to feel rejected. She married Robert, yes, but she is still a Lannister."

Myrielle would know what to do. 

Polite and quiet she might be, but there was no doubt that Myrielle was a Lannister. She always had some plan, waiting to be used at a moment's notice. Even sending Lysa well-wishes in an effort to open communication between the Rock and the Vale had been her idea. After her refusal to join the War of the Five King's, Sansa had not been so eager to congratulate her aunt on her pregnancy or new marriage. Yet thinking of Myrielle gave Sansa an idea.

"What if we give the queen Cerenna's rooms? She's leaving in three days, and the queen is only at Deep Den. it is enough time to have them cleaned and arranged."

"That would work," Tyrion agreed, after a moment, "it is better than giving her mother's rooms."

"Cersei is at Deep Den?" Jaime asked. 

Sansa produced the letter she had come to give him. She knew that Cersei was his sister, but she could not quite help the hurt that blossomed when Jaime eagerly read through it. Tyrion had sat back in his chair, "she will likely stay a few days with the more prominent houses, giving us about ten days to prepare. Do you have any objections to giving her Cerenna's rooms, Jaime? They are the ones on the far side of the hall, near Myrielle's."

"No, that will be fine," Jaime agreed, "Cersei can stay in Cerenna's rooms. Thank you, Sansa. Did you intend to stay for Cersei's visit, or are you taking the loan now?"

Once more, neither brother had looked at her while they spoke. Sansa was beginning to wonder if she had interrupted something important, "loan? Are you going somewhere, L- Tyrion?"

"To Castamere," he answered, smiling briefly at her before turning back to Jaime, "I intended to do both. Men and equipment must be gathered before they need me present. I can do more here, looking over the designs of the castle."

"You are going to Castamere now? I had thought it was only rubble still."

"It is on the surface," Tyrion agreed, "but most of the castle was underground and hopefully intact. We are going to drain it, as we attempt to reopen the silver mines. I believe that most of the underground infrastructure should still be intact. If we can excavate it without breaking it, the castle should be usable with a few repairs."

"Oh. But it belonged to the Reynes, before it was destroyed? Isn't there someone with a claim?"

"Our father is it's rightful owner," Tyrion laughed, "by conquest and by blood. It will be a fair seat if I can reopen the mines."

"By blood?" Jaime asked, "how are we so closely related to the Reynes?"

"Through Gerold the Golden's wife, Lady Rohanne, niece to Lord Robert Reyne."

"How long is the queen staying?" Sansa asked, "I would think she means to remain after Prince Tommen's nameday, as she is coming so early. Would you have to be present for the excavating?"

"Cersei will not leave Joffrey long," Tyrion assured her, "I expect she only came so early because Queen Margaery is pregnant, and favored at court for now. By the time Tommen's nameday comes, the babe will have been born."

At least she knew when Cersei would be leaving. If she were Margaery, she would not have wanted Cersei present during her pregnancy. She was pregnant, and did not want Cersei present. She was torn between being relieved for Margaery and irritated on her own behalf. Sansa no more wanted Cersei near than Margaery did, perhaps less, as Margaery had Ser Loras to guard her.

Who would stop Cersei from tormenting Sansa again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, new chapter! We're getting close to the fun stuff. For those who missed my note, chapter is late because my computer was ~4 years old and got knocked off a table by our new border collie. The new chromebook I purchased took forever to arrive.
> 
> Many apologies, and I appreciate all the support from the last chapter! Your reviews are the reason I keep writing, and I felt really guilty about leaving you hanging. We'll get back on track, with hopefully another chapter tomorrow. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Arianne


	40. Kingmaker III

4/27/301

Someone was shouting in the hall.

It was not all that uncommon in the Great Pyramid. The Shavepate and Daenerys argued daily now, and every time the silver queen came closer to doing as Hizdahr asked and sending Skahaz away. Arianne would have ignored it, had it not been nearly two hours before sunrise and directly outside her door.

As it was, the screaming was growing increasingly louder and interrupting her sleep. The first voice had been joined by several more, the words not quite filtering through the walls, but the argument obvious. Arianne separated herself from the tangle of legs, brushed away the silver hair strewn across her skin, and stumbled toward the door, half-blind with sleep.

By the time she actually reached the door, she was more awake. She could hear Ashara Dayne arguing with someone before she managed to unbolt the door and pull it open, “why are you shouting?” she demanded, wincing at the torchlight in the hall, “do you know what time it is?”

The sudden silence in the hall gave her a chance to step out of her doorway. Grey Worm stood in the hall, solem in the face of Connington’s rage. Ashara and Haldon were just behind the knight, attempting to calm him. It was the Dornishwoman's voice that had been loudest, while the maester was trying to be the voice of reason. The corridor was large, meant for the guards of important guests, but right now it held far too many Unsullied. Three of them were forced to move out of her way as she stepped into the hall.

“Aegon is missing,” Arianne had not seen Quentyn amid the Unsullied. He was standing just outside of his door, as she was, although he had taken the time to find clothing, “Ser Jon thinks that Daenerys has kidnapped him.”

“Of course, Grey Worm does not approve of that suggestion,” Andrey had worked his way through the Unsullied to stand next to her. He wore only a pair of breeches, but he carried his sword sheath in his hand. She was surprised he was awake, Drey had always been a heavy sleeper, but ever since they had lost Garin he had taken it upon himself to watch out for her. It was not surprising that he had brought his sword.

“Why are you looking for your princeling at this time of night?” she demanded, “he is to face a dragon on the morrow and you decided this would be the best time for a midnight chat?”

“What does it matter why I sought him?” Connington demanded, “he is missing. Do you think he wandered off in the middle of the night?”

Arianne nudged the door to her rooms open, “Aegon!” she called, “get out here and tell your servants to quiet down before they start a fight.”

Either her leaving had woken him, or the shouting had, for when his hand caught the door he was fully dressed, sword fastened about his waist and he looked more awake than she felt. His face flushed at her nakedness, and when he saw the number of people in the hall his ears brightened as well.

“What’s going on?”

“They think Daenerys kidnapped you,” Aegon blinked at her owlishly, so she continued, nodding toward Connington, “so they tried to start a fight with the Unsullied.”

"I asked to speak to the queen, I did  _not_ start a fight."

"You said you would kill Daenerys Stormborn yourself," Grey Worm interrupted, "and demanded to be taken to her."

“It’s three hours before sunrise,” he looked to Connington, who had stepped away from Grey Worm. He was either furious or ashamed judging by his expression. Arianne was not convinced that there was any practical difference as it affected his actions.

“Aegon, I wish to speak to you privately.”

“Three hours before he faces a dragon?” Arianne demanded, “I would think you would want him fully rested before endangering his life.”

“I am his advisor,” Connington ground out.

“Advisors do not command kings,” Aegon had made no move to defend himself, but Arianne was already tired of this, “he can be wherever he pleases so long as Queen Daenerys does not object. You are not his father or his aunt, you are his advisor. You would do well to remember such.”

She offered Drey a smile before retreating back to her rooms, letting her thanks go unspoken. The sleeping silks had cooled in her absence, and were pleasant against her skin. Her rooms were at the far side of the pyramid, as the entirety of the floor had been available to chose from when they arrived, and they opened in a balcony which allowed the breeze to filter into her rooms. They were not as cool as Daenerys’s rooms at the top of the Great Pyramid, but they were better than the rooms in the interior of the pyramid.

At some time during the night, Viserion had landed on the balcony, her white scales shimmering in the moonlight. She had not moved during the entire argument, and for that Arianne was grateful. It was doubtful that a dragon trying to force it’s way through her door to reach her would have improved the situation.  

Arianne did not know how long it was before her door opened and closed quietly. In the darkness, time was marked only by Viserion’s breathing. In the moonlight streaming through the window, Aegon’s hair shone as bright as Viserion’s scales. After he discarded his sword, he hesitantly approached her bed, standing at the edge as she rolled on her back to look up at him, watching as his eyes flickered as her movement pulled at the sheets, revealing more of her skin.

“Should I…”

Aegon seemed to be lacking the words to finish the thought. He had, however, made the mistake of standing too close to her while being indecisive. While he was otherwise occupied, she extended her leg, hooked her heel around the back of his knee and tugged, sending him sprawling onto the bed. Although he did his best to keep his weight off her as he landed, he was still half-lying on her.

Fumbling, he tried to roll off of her, but instead became tangled in the silks. He grabbed them on instinct, trying to separate them, and only managed to grope her. Instantly, he snatched his hands back, trapped. Arianne took pity on him, although she couldn’t contain the giggling, and sleepily curled into his side, shifted her weight from the silks, and freed them both.

When she nuzzled into him, his shirt smelt of the airy salt of the ocean and the little Meereenese peaches that Daenerys loved, a stark reminder that the princeling was out of place in her bed. Arianne prefered worldly men, with more experience and a sharper tongue than she, and while Aegon was indeed handsome, he was only a boy, too sweet and cautious for her tastes. He should be in Daenerys’ bed, not hers, but the queen would not have him.

It would have been a shame for him to die a virgin.

It took him too long to decide what to do with his hands, how to wrap her in his embrace without over thinking how he held her. Arianne could not help but wonder if Viserys would have been like this, awkward and uncertain. She doubted it. Daenerys did not speak of her brother often, but the details she had gleaned had not improved her image of him. The man had sold his sister to a Dothraki khal, by all accounts, which was not a good beginning, and Daenerys had not disagreed when Jhiqui had told her that Viserys had tried to kill his sister.

She could not see the blushing prince in her bed trying to kill anyone, least of all his kin.

That thought lead into another: would Viserys have stepped aside for his nephew? If Daenerys had not hatched dragons, if Khal Drogo had lived to lead his khalasar across the Narrow Sea, would the Targaryen siblings have accepted Aegon’s claim over their own? After having lived on the streets of the Free Cities for so many years, could Viserys have set aside his pride to put Aegon on the throne.

Many nights Arianne had lain awake, thinking of her father. Of home. When they had left, it had been to marry Quentyn to the Dragon Queen, to renew the alliance that had died with Viserys. Then they had lost Garin and Cletus and Joss to pirates, and had learned something of the war to come. _The Great Game_ , Oberyn had called it, when he kissed her head and sent her off. Tyene had already departed for King’s Landing, and the mission was so secret that not even Spotted Sylva was allowed to see her off.

They had left the palace in servant’s clothing, boarding what was ostensibly a merchant’s ship heading to Volantis. Innocent and naïve, unprepared for war and loss. It had not been until she met Daenerys, little girl conqueror that she was, that Arianne understood what these plans would bring upon Westeros. There was a reason that Aegon the Conqueror had chosen _Fire and Blood_ as his House’s words while he prepared to invade.

Perhaps all of this would be worth it, some day. Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Daenerys wanted to go home. Robert Baratheon had wanted Lyanna Stark. Jon Arryn wanted to keep his head. It might be that all wars were started as such. Would losing her father or Tyene be worth it, if Elia’s son sat the Iron Throne? She did not think so. Her father might. It was supposed to have been Quentyn who lead this war, who rode a dragon and married Daenerys. Not her.

Quentyn would never marry Daenerys.

He did not know this. He would not accept it if she told him. That did not make it untrue.

The need for a marriage alliance had died when Arianne climbed upon Viserion’s back, the world fading from sight as her wings stretched into the wind. She could feel Viserion’s love for her mother as strongly as she could feel her breath, her heartbeat, the downward thrust of her wings in the air. If Daenerys loved the dragon half so much, their bond had done as much as any marriage could.

If Daenerys married anyone, it would be Aegon. Elia’s son and a Targaryen by blood, but they did not need to marry. He was her nephew, their alliance was in the blood running through their veins. Blood that had raised dragons from stone. Blood that may spill come dawn.

“Are you afraid?”

She was afraid for him, but she did not dare say that.

“Of Rhaegal?”

“Of dying.”

“I will not die.”

“How do you know? Rhaegal is the most volatile of all three dragons. She burned Quentyn.”

“I am a Targaryen.”

“So said Aerion Brightflame,” he laughed then, a rumble so low that if she had not been pressed against his chest she would not have heard it.

“No, Daenerys is the dragon, not I. Even so, I will have Rhaegal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you we'd get a few chapters out this weekend :) If we're lucky, we might get up to Cersei's chapter.
> 
> I'm really glad to see all my commentors again, and a few new ones! Someone mentioned that Sansa seemed a little lost, which I feel we can squarely pin on Cersei. I mean... she did help kill Sansa's dad and make her life a living hell. I really look forward to her arrival, though :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Tyrion


	41. The Imp IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets sweet Sansa and the Rock. Tyrion gets a flooded, fallen castle and a cousin to wife.

Tyrion had learned two things this morning.

First, he knew far too little about mining to be in charge of the excavation of anything, much less a castle that he intended to be intact when the process was finished. The first half of his morning had involved a discussion with one of the Rock’s best miners, which had made that clear. If the rocks that blocked the entrances to the subterranean structures were removed incorrectly, said entrances could collapse, bringing more of the hall down with them. Next was the problem of the water. At the surface, Castamere only held a token amount of water, which could easily be drained off to allow the men to work, but past the entrance it was not so. 

Underground, the castle was easily half the size of the Rock, making it one of the largest castles in the Westerlands, rivaling Deep Den or the Golden Tooth. It was also completely flooded. As one walked past the entrance, he would encounter water that would soon be over his head. The same was true of the mines. Really, the best part of this entire mess was that the bodies underground would now be only bones, and easy to carry from the ruins. If the only bright side of this was that he would not need to send for the Silent Sisters to descend into the mines, this would take far longer than he had thought.

The second thing that Tyrion had learned was that Myrielle knew more about the process than she was letting on. 

He rubbed the bridge of what remained of his nose, and studies he man in front of him. White-haired and old he may be, but he was as straight as an arrow and had a determined air about him, “just… let me clarify.”

The man nodded amiably. 

“You traveled all the way from Goldengrove on foot?”

“Yes, m’lord, that’s where my family hails from.” 

His surname had told Tyrion that much, “because someone promised your weight in silver if you could drain Castamere’s mines.”

“Not someone,” the man insisted, “Lady Myrielle. And not just the silver, a place in her household as well.”

What had Myrielle expected the man to do within Castamere? Did their sons needs to learn to dig trenches? Still, there was no reason for the man to wander in and be sent to him unless he was telling the truth, “I see. And you believe that you can drain the mines and the castle?”

“Yes, I was in charge of irrigating the Rowan’s lands, once” the man nodded again. Something about it was giving Tyrion a headache, “I thought about it on the way north. Seems to me that I can do it in a month if I have the things I need.”

“What things?”

“A leather maker, strong men, and stronger horses,” he said, “ open the entrances and give me a month. I’ll have the castle and the mines damp but drained.” 

It was not as if Castamere was suffering for smallfolk, and many would be more than happy to aid in the opening of the mines. But before he let this man wander about the Rock, he needed to know if this could work, “come with me, than, Braylon. I want you to meet the man who will be excavating the caves.”

The mining specialist he had stolen from Jaime had already left, but as the man was now busy planning to reopen Castamere’s mines they did not need to travel all the way to the bottom of the Rock to find him. Tyrion was willing to be grateful for small favors. He had given the man a little study several floors below to work in, and it was there they found him, poring over some diagram of a doorway.

“Ah, Leon, there you are,” Tyrion had picked this one himself. Hailing from a family of miners who had worked in the Rock for generations, Leon’s elder brother had recently taken their father’s place as an overseer of one of the lower levels. Between his anger at being overlooked for his brother and his experience, he was the perfect person to aid in reopening the mines, “this is Braylon. He will be draining the area and I wanted your opinion on his ideas. We do not want the rock to collapse, after all.

“How are you going to drain it?”

Braylon looked between the desk ad the bookshelf, “you have a quill and paper?”

Tyrion took the opportunity to quietly excuse himself. If Braylon intended to bring the mines down on their heads, Leon would need time to figure that out. Meanwhile, Tyrion had another problem with their new arrival.

Luckily, his bride was not hard to find.

Sansa had taken to holding court in the mornings. She had commandeered a section of the gardens with Jaime’s blessing, and there she visited with all the ladies who had come to the Rock to serve her. In the seat to her right was Myrielle, only Sansa’s direwolf between them. The other women seemed afraid of Lady, giving her a wide berth, but Myrielle fed her scraps and pet her head. The behavior was a far cry from her hatred of horses and livestock, but had quickly endeared her to Sansa. 

Lady Roslin was weaving a bright fabric, he noted, and as he waddled in she nearly knocked over the loom. All conversation paused. Well, all save Sansa, who had managed to avoid his caretaking of the sewers and - somehow - his Lannister name. His good-sister smiled welcomingly at him, “I so rarely have visitors here.”

He was not sure if that was meant as a slight to the women around them, or a compliment. 

“Lord Jaime insists upon wandering about his balcony,” Myrielle pointed out, “deep in thought, it would seem.”

Tyrion followed the flicker of her eyes to where Jaime was pacing near the railing high above them. Sansa laughed, “but he never comes down. Is there something we can do to help, Tyrion?”

“I wished to speak to Lady Myrielle, if you have no objections, sweet sister,” he had called Cersei such in jest, but he doubted anyone could meet Sansa and not find her lovely. She was dressed in a red linen dress, cut in the style of the Westerlands. She had found them very odd at first, but after a few days in the Rock anyone would succumb to the heat. The dress was clasped at the bodice with golden lion clasps, and Sansa wore a necklace of rubies about her neck. However, with a direwolf at her side, she could look nothing but a Stark.

“As long as Myrielle does not mind?” his bride kissed Sansa on the cheek as she stood, brushed down her skirts and stepped out of the crowd. She was short, but not so much so that she could take his arm, so she clasped his hand in her own instead.                            

Of late, Sansa seemed to have taken to wearing clothing fashioned in a Lannister style. Golden and red dresses, lion clasps and great jeweled rings, everything except her hair, which stubbornly remained in the loose Northern style that she had adopted after leaving King’s Landing. Myrielle had taken the opposite track. Her love of yellow dresses in childhood stood out in his mind, and she had worn nothing but Lannister colors until they reached the Rock. Now she wore a silver silk dress with a long gold necklace. Anyone who cared to see would find the colors of Castamere.

Greenery lined the walkway as Myrielle led them deeper into the gardens. Some Lannister king had managed to cultivate gardens on the harsh shelf of the Rock, although Tyrion could not remember which, and although he rarely spent time among them he was forced to admit that they were very beautiful.

“What did you wish to speak of?”

“A Braylon Rowan arrived this morning. He said you had sent for him.”

“His branch of the family is distant enough to have intermarried with the smallfolk,” he wasn’t sure if that was an agreement or not, “and for him to have been a worker and not a knight, yet he bears the name. If he had bothered to inform me that he had accepted my offer, I would have sent men and horses to collect him.”

Tyrion suspected that there was an apology there, although she had not stated it directly, “he claims that he kept the irrigation trenches of Goldengrove.”

“Are there other men better qualified to aid in draining the mines?”

“Mines and agriculture take very different approaches.”

“Did he say that he cannot drain the mines?”

“No,” Tyrion admitted, “he said he needs the entrances cleared, a leather maker, horses, men, and a month.”

“Is that something we cannot do? After most of the water is drained we can bring up the bodies and have your miners begin their work.”

“You do not think it might be dangerous to have a man of the Reach working to drain the castle?”

Myrielle looked down at him, face unreadable, “I think that the most dangerous thing is that it was flooded once. From King Joffrey down to the lowliest smallfolk, every man in Westeros now knows how to defeat Castamere’s inhabitants. Perhaps it would have been safer to hire a man from the southern Westerlands, but I did not want a man to drain the castle. I wanted one to insure that it would never need to be drained again.

“Braylon is the man who made the northern foothills of the Rowan’s land fertile. Many men before him had tried, and all failed. The trenches were long since in place, closed off to prevent the waste of water, for the land soaked it away  long before it could reach the flatlands. He had leather coated with the resin they use to make wineskins, and he covered the trenches with that. 

“I admit that I am a woman, and know little of agriculture. I do know of finances. The Rowans increased their harvest by a third.”

She was right, but Tyrion saw one glaring problem with this solution, “it will cost a small fortune to line the castle well enough to prevent flooding.”

“That is fine. There is a large fortune in the mines.”

“Would it not be easier to dig an escape shaft?”

“It would. Do you wish to be the one to lead an army through a narrow tunnel into battle?”

“It will take years for the mines to produce the money for that. Perhaps even decades.”

“Why am I marrying you if I must create all of the plans?” she asked, pausing at a niche in the path. A stone bench sat across from a grouping of flowers, neither of which Tyrion had known existed. “See to our safety, and if it is done well enough our children will live to finish the work.”

Tyrion laughed at that. While Myrielle paused to admire the brilliant blue flowers he eased himself onto the bench, glad to take some of the weight off of his aching legs. His future wife was the picture of beauty, the color of the blossoms complimenting her dress wonderfully, “you are right, of course. I suspect you always shall be.”

Myrielle’s smile was sweet, but she did not disagree, “I simply wish not to drown, dear husband.”

He could not fault her for that. And she was right in thinking that they needed someone with experience before the next war began. The worst time to remember that Castamere could be flooded would be as the water began to pour in, and while temporary fixes would work for now, they could also cost their descendants quite a lot later on.

It was then that he heard his name.

It was accompanied by an uncomfortable scraping sound, followed by the sharp thud of a body on the ground. Both of them turned to find Podrick Payne scrambling up from the ground. It appeared that the boy had ran over a poor bush, and fallen a bit too hard. Aside from the ever-present flush, the boy did not seem to notice. At least Myrielle was kind enough not to laugh at him.

“Podrick, what  _ are _ you doing?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord. Lord Jaime requests your presence, your sister, the queen that is, Queen Cersei-”

“Yes, I know my sister. I have only the one. What of her? Was she attacked by bandits? Or perhaps the marauding lions?” He doubted the gods were that gracious.

“She’s here, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And our Tyrion chapter. Genna almost had another cameo, but unfortunately that would just give too much away. She'll have to wait a few chapters instead. 
> 
> Housekeeping: someone asked if we would be having a cameo from Myranda Royce, as Lysa had offered to send Sansa a companion. The answer is no, but for good, plot-related reason. However, if there is another suitable Vale girl you'd like to see, let me know.
> 
> I am really glad that everyone is warming up to Arianne's chapters, as it was one of my worries when I restarted writing. As Baelorfan reminded me, I didn't really clarify the timeline in Dorne, so I wanted to do a little of that: Arianne did not attempt to crown Myrcella. Yes, she did something, which is what reconciled her and her father, but, as Joffrey is alive, it was not that. Watch for more Myrcella when we get back to Dorne.
> 
> Next chapter: Winterfell. Which may or may not arrive tomorrow, as I'm working 11 hour shifts this week.


	42. Lady Stark VI

7/21/300

This was the third of these dinners in as many weeks.

Although Catelyn rarely disproved of politicking, these gathering were quickly becoming less of a lord meeting with his bannermen and more of an argument among peers. The Smalljon was becoming a common face in Winterfell, with every wilding raid his father sent a raven, and with every raven he became more bold. He needed men, and every day he pleaded with Robb to send them. Her son had a soft heart, and left to his own devices he might well have done so.

Yet Winterfell was still half in ruins, and the threat of the Ironborn remained, even with Theon locked away in the dungeons. Balon Greyjoy had already shown that he would gladly start a war when his son was held hostage, they had no reason to think that his opinion had changed. Only the castle guards remained, and still Catelyn had to plead to keep their men within Winterfell.  When she mentioned Bran and Rickon, and the lack of guards for them, he relented.

Hugo Wull’s second son had come to ask for aid as well, a man only a few years older than Robb and of the same height, but twice as wide. While the Smalljon prefered to badger Robb, each time the Wull boy saw her he mentioned how his elder brother had been one of Brandon’s best friends, how he had died for Lyanna Stark in the deserts of Dorne. Catelyn was unconvinced that he was not trying to remind her of the dead, rather than merely stressing House Wull’s loyalty to the Starks. Sometimes both sat together in the corner of the hall, speaking in low voices and watching the high table.

It was that which worried Catelyn most.

They could be managed. At least they had finally roused Roose Bolton from Winterfell. The courtyard felt empty without his men, but she was relieved that he no longer lurked in Winterfell’s halls. Cold and lonely the Dreadfort may be, but Roose was a greater opponent than either the Umbers or all the mountain clans combined. Catelyn had ordered that he take his bastard with him. She had rid herself of one Snow, she did not need another.

Of late, Robb had become more stubborn in public meetings. It was not difficult to understand why: the Northerners would sooner a Northern woman rule them than a southron man; that she was both a Riverlander and a woman was a double insult. The only reason they had accepted her appointment to the position of Warden at all was their loyalty to Ned, and the worse things became the more tenuous that loyalty became. If Robb deferred to her judgement, his men would think less of him.

Catelyn kept that in mind as she waited for the room to empty. It would do her no good to question Robb in front of his men, better to wait until he could listen and judge her words on their own merits. Although he still kept to his own rooms, Robb had taken over Ned’s solar. Perhaps he thought it kept his lords in line. More likely it made him feel powerful. Once only she and Robb remained, she spoke, “still no word from the Baratheon men?”

“None that I can share with them,” Robb shook his head, trying and failing to tame his auburn curls, instead he raked a hand through his hair to push them back, “he and his men are still alive, but send no word of where they are. Better to let them think I am trying to protect our efforts than as lost as they are.”

“Have you told them at you will not be leading them?” Roose Bolton would, if Robb had his way. He was a good general and the appointment was sure to calm the Dreadfort, but she suspected that it would only anger the other lords more. Why the Boltons and not the Umbers? Or the Karstarks? Or even the Manderlys. A Stark leader they would follow, but one of their fellow lords could not so easily expect their loyalty.

“Not yet,” he grimaced, rifling among the papers aimlessly, lifting one to look at it, dropping it again and selecting another. He would not look at her. Catelyn’s blood ran cold.

“Why not? Best to tell them and have it done with.”

“I fear that Stannis Baratheon will not listen to anyone less than a Stark,” he looked down to one of the scraps of paper that had arrived aboard a raven. The most recent update from Lord Stannis - King Stannis, as he demanded to be called on all communication between them - was only a tiny scrap of paper with one word scrawled across it. If it was intercepted, it was utterly innocent. It could have been any maester training his ravens to fly to Winterfell, “he may refuse to respect my generals and do whatever he pleases with the Northern army.”

“You cannot march south,” Catelyn had known this would happen the moment he announced these plans. What man could resist glory in battle? What lord would allow his men to be ruled by another? Certainly not a boy who had been crowned king. “The Lannisters have Sansa, Robb. They will kill her if they think you support Stannis.”

“You think Tywin Lannister cares if I am not personally present when my men march south?” Robb asked, “he would kill Sansa anyway, if he could.”

“Are you suggesting that he can’t?” Catelyn demanded, “who will stop him? You will be in King’s Landing, taking the throne, while your sister is murdered.”

“It won’t be Sansa he killed,” he assured her, “it would be his own grandson. Do you think the Kingslayer does not intend to keep Sansa pregnant? Tywin can hardly murder his own grandson.”

“Sansa _is_ pregnant. She will deliver in the early months of next year. How can she carry a babe and nurse one at the same time?”

“Sansa is, but Jeyne is not. It will be at least nine months from now that we march, perhaps more,” Robb tried to calm her, “when that time comes, we will see what happens.”

“And if her womb happens to inconvience us?”

“Then we will march under the Baratheon banners if we must,” Robb reached for her as she stood, but she ignored him, “mother, please, you know that I would never betray Sansa. Do you think she wants to spend the rest of her life as the Kingslayer’s wife? Once we take King’s Landing, we can barter Cersei for Sansa.”

“And if he refuses?”

“If Stannis is correct, then Jaime will gladly trade his wife for his lover.”

“What if he is wrong?” Catelyn demanded, “what if Cersei is nothing more than Jaime’s sister?”

“Do you think I wouldn’t trade a hostage for my sister?”

“You would, but you did not murder your king.”

“Mother, if Stannis is wrong then we are rebelling against the rightful king.”

“Then do not go to war on the word of the man with the most to gain from lying.”

Robb considered her, “was Aerys the rightful king when he was overthrown?”

“He burned your grandfather alive,” Catelyn answered, “he refused to acknowledge that trials existed or that laws applied to the royal family.”

“Joffrey promised father he could go to the Wall and then cut off his head. Is that respect for the law?” Robb stood abruptly, stormed to the window to stare out of it, “If he will not trade Sansa for Cersei, they we will kill her and see if he will trade her for Tywin, or Joffrey, or Margaery’s babe, or anyone else that’s left alive. Perhaps after we behead his sister and leave her corpse to rot where he can see it he will change his mind when we bring out his father.”

“Will Stannis allow you to give Tywin away? I’d imagine he would want him executed.”

“It does not matter what Stannis wants. He swore that Sansa’s sons will rule the Rock, he cannot change his mind now. What does it matter if Tywin retreats to the Rock? If he wants to starve with his family then he is free to. We will offer every man who will lay down their sword peace, and if we cannot scale the walls then hunger will do our work for us.”

“That is why they will keep Sansa. You cannot starve them if they have her.”

“If it comes to that, once the men are hungry enough, I will offer food for her. Eventually the Lannisters will be killed by their own kin for the sake of food,” he looked up at her, “what would you have us do? Marching on the Rock first would be folly.”

“I would have you stay here. You know that. You were accepted back into the king’s peace, allowed to keep Winterfell, and your sons will rule after you. Tywin will not be so kind next time.”

“And how long until Joffrey decides that we are still his enemies, no matter what he promised? He did the same with father.”

Catelyn had no answer for that. Every scrap of news they heard of the young king was worse than the last, and none of it had been good to begin with. His treatment of Sansa during the war was disgraceful, and foolish, and Catelyn found that the longer she thought about the story of Sansa’s miscarriage the less she believed it. Why had her daughter been so happy to trade one Lannister stronghold for another? Why send her away when she was still recovering from a misscarriage?

When she said nothing, Robb continued, “it is our duty to cast Joffrey off the throne. Father did the same with Aerys, he would expect it of me.”

“Your father would _expect_ _you_ to keep your sisters safe,” Catelyn answered.

“Is Sansa safe with the Kingslayer?”

“Safer than she would be if we start a war with his father.”

“So sit in the North and allow the Lannisters to keep a bastard on the throne. I cannot do that. Our bannermen are already near rioting. The Dreadfort is sulking after we disbanded the Freys, Roose has no heir and for a heir he needs a wife. The Umbers and the Wulls are angry that we have no men to send them, but even the smallfolk are still scattered across the countryside. If we had won, we would have gold and men to drive the wildlings back, but we have neither. Edmure gets gold to regrow his crops, we get shuttled back home with nothing.”

“Such is war. You have no security in rebelling again, we may lose, and the Lannisters would not be more generous this time.”

Robb stared out the window over the snow-covered ground and said nothing. Perhaps he had not even thought of what would happen if they lost. It was unlikely that anyone in the North would hold the title of Warden and less likely that any Stark would ever again set foot in Winterfell. Let him think on it, she did not intend to interrupt him. Ned had been the same way, if more willing to think on things before acting.

She did not need to. A sharp knock on the door did so in her stead, and the man behind it called, “Lord Robb, Lady Jeyne requests your presence. It seems that her friend, the wildling that is, is leaving?”

_Good._

Catelyn would feel worse for the girl if the wildling had not been a danger to them all. If the Umbers or, Mother have mercy, the Wulls, had learned that Winterfell was sheltering a wildling Catelyn had little doubt that they would have been forced to lock their men in the dungeons until clearer heads prevailed. She looked at Robb. _If clearer heads prevailed._

“Leaving? Where is she going?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

Catelyn followed behind as Robb hurried through the halls toward the rooms the wildling had been given. She arrived to the slam of a door. The hall shuddered as Sybell stormed away, but Catelyn did not mind so much. The walls would not fall over so slight a thing, and it saved her from the insuffrable woman’s presence. Sybell continously failed to realized that her daughter was Robb’s wife, and not Sybell herself. Not that Jeyne did anything with the title. It was Catelyn who cared for the castle and it’s inhabitants.

Even without the Spicer woman, they had quite enough people clustered into the room. Robb stood in the open doorway, unwilling to invade a woman’s space. Inside the room, Jeyne fussed over the wildling girl while Beth Cassel and her sister Eleyna hovered.

“Must you go?” Jeyne asked. The wildling did not pause in her packing, lifting things from the chest at the end of the bed and carefully squirrling them away in her fur-bound pack. When she found a sheathed blade among her things, she pulled it out to inspect the blade, then tucked it under her clothes to secure it about her waist, “it is so very cold.”

“ ‘s colder up north,” the girl answered, “past the Wall. But I was born of the snow, it does not bother me.”

In the cradle beside the bed, her babe began to cry. The wildling was finished packing. She stood, wrapped the pack tight against her shoulders, and bound it there with strips of leather. It was half as big as she was, but she bore it easier than a poor knight bore his armor. Fire burnt bright in the hearth, warming the room even more, but even in her thick furs the girl took no notice. She strode over to the cradle and looked down at the babe within.

“Are you not afraid?” Jeyne asked.

The wildling seemed to consider that, “mayhaps I am. But that does not mean I can stay here. I was born in the north and I will die there. All of us’ll die, and I will die as one of the Free Folk beyond the Wall.”

For all her bravado, she had not yet looked away from the babe. Finally, she reached a hand inside the collar of her furs, and fumbled for a moment, before withdrawing a necklace with only one pendant: a claw the size of Catelyn’s hand. The room at large stared at it, as the wildling girl held it up and looked at it. Then she looked to the babe.

“This’s for you,” she said, leaning down to drape it over the edge of the cradle. It was far enough away that the babe could not catch it to tug it down, but even so it was a frightening sight, “the only thing my father ever gave my mother. Best it stay with you now.”

She kissed the child’s head, and straightened her pack as she stood. In front of Jeyne she stopped, and clasped one hand around the girl’s shoulder, “Ygritte-”

“You will take care of my babe, you said. Swear it to me.”

“Of course I will!”

“Swear it,” the wildling commanded, “Swear by the old pact.”

Catelyn had never heard of such a thing, but when Jeyne could only blink wide-eyed at the girl, Beth stepped forward. Against her ear she spoke so softly that Catelyn could not hear, and all the room was quiet. Jeyne listened intently, and when she looked back to the wildling her confusion had fled. She lifted her chin to look the other girl in the face.

“I will care for your babe as though he were my own. I swear it by earth and water,” her voice was strong as she spoke, unfaltering and determined. Catelyn had never seen this side of Robb’s sweet southron wife. This woman was the wife of a Stark, a Lady of Winterfell, “I swear it by bronze and iron.

“I swear it by ice and by fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're more or less back on schedule. I have the next chapter written too :)
> 
> Thanks for the reviews in the last chapter, guys! One of them on the timeline really made me dig back into it and I made a few future tweaks! I appreciate the help!
> 
> Next chapter: Cersei


	43. Queen Mother III

7/19/300

She was home.

Cersei was on her feet before the wheelhouse stopped, her red skirts twisting sharply as she opened the door before the driver could even climb from his position atop the carriage. She stepped onto the familiar ground of the courtyard of the Rock and paused. She had played here as a child under her mother’s watchful gaze, before she was old enough to understand the duties of a daughter of the Rock. At the age of twelve she took over the major duties of the running of the Rock from Genna, ignoring her septa’s protests, because if Jaime could be a squire then she could assume the duties of the lady of the house.

It was here that she learned that Rhaegar was dead, and that she would never be his princess. Here that she learned that Elia Martell was dead, and known that her father had done it for her sake. Here that she learned that the prophecy was true: she would marry the king. Perhaps it was not true. Joffrey had won the war, Tommen was safe in the Rock, only Myrcella was in danger now.

Even the air smelt of home, fresh and salty and earthy, a far cry from the disgusting streets of King’s Landing, a reek that not even the heavy perfumes of the Red Keep could not hide. Cersei brushed down her skirts and looked about, drawing her cloak tightly over her shoulders as she searched the steps for Jaime and did not find him. Where was he?

Tommen ran down to greet her, dressed in plain clothes and without a sword, and she frowned down at him as he hugged her skirts, “mummy!”

“What are you doing out here?” she asked. He was Jaime’s squire, and if her brother was missing she had expected Tommen to be with him. Men were all the same, even Jaime loved swordplay and knights far too much.

“Aunt Genna said that you were here,” he explained, face falling. Not for the first time, Cersei wondered why her sons were so very different. Joffrey was bold and Tommen frightened, her elder boy would not be caught clinging to his mother’s skirts. He would have made the most of the chance to learn from the men of the Rock.

“You are a squire now, you should be with your uncle.”

“Jaime-”

“ _Uncle_ Jaime, Tommen, you must call him your uncle,” she had drilled it into each of her children. The more they refered to him as family the less the more it reminded everyone that they shared blood. If they looked at Jaime and thought him their uncle, they would not look beyond that. Few people even looked that far. “Do not cling to me so, you must be strong. You are a lion, not a bleating lamb.”

She stepped past her son and strode toward the steps.

Instead of her brother, Sansa Stark waited to greet her, with fewer of her aunts and cousins than Cersei had expected. The girl wore a gown of red linen, an obvious attempt to win favor by miming loyalty to her new house. It was held closed by clasps of gold, forged in the shape of lions.  Sansa smiled when Cersei approached, but she was ignored in favor of Genna.

Cersei was not stupid. Genna was the real power at the Rock. It was not the wolf-whore she needed to court. She embranced Genna tightly, “you look well, aunt.”

“Do I? It must be Emmon’s leaving, it’s made the Rock much nicer,” somehow Cersei doubted that. Genna had never paid attention to her husband when he was in the same room with her, and after their second son was born she had ordered his rooms moved away from her own. Emmon had argued, of course, but Tywin had sent him away. He had never approved of the match,  and Cersei suspected that he had left to avoid the fallout that would happen if Tywin chose to invalidate their marriage.

“Where is Jaime?” It was he who she had come for and he who she needed to see.

“I don’t know,” Genna answered. Cersei floundered for a moment. It was not the answer she had been expecting, but Genna did not seem to notice as she continued, “I came down when news was sent that you were arriving. Lady Sansa might know?”

Cersei scowled, but turned to the girl. Genna was correct, if Jaime was taking his pleasure of her, she might well know where he was, “where is my brother, little dove?”

Dorna laughed, ignorant of the tension, “little dove? Are we allowed to call you pet names, my Lady?”

“I would prefer if you did not,” Sansa replied, tersely. She had no right to decide what she was called. No right to be called ‘lady’ as though she was someone that must be defered too. She seemed different than she had in King’s Landing, perhaps what little freedom she was afforded at the Rock had gone to her head, “but as I have said, you may call me Sansa. Jaime is in a meeting with Ser Horas Redwyne and must not be interrupted. Forgive us, my queen, but we did not expect you for several days yet.”

“Jaime will not mind the interruption,” Cersei laughed lightly, smiling at Genna, “will you send a man to summon him?”

Genna was still smiling, but she looked past Cersei to Sansa, “when will he be done with his meeting?”

Cersei turned to follow her gaze, and Sansa smiled at her, although she looked as if she wished to cry, “I do not know, but he said it was important. No one is to bother him, but I will have a guard sent to tell him that you are here once they have finished talking, if it pleases you.”

“It does not,” Cersei looked to the man standing near the entrance to the keep. He bore Lannister arms and had the look of a knight, “Ser, go and tell my brother that I wish to speak to him.”

“At on-”

“I said that my husband is not to be interrupted,” Sansa turned calmly to the guard and stared at him with more boldness than Cersei had thought she possessed, “what about my words was unclear?”

“I- I apologize, my lady. I had thought- the queen-”

“You are not here to think,” Genna interjected amid his stammering, “you are to do as you are told.”

The knight looked between she and Sansa, obviously still confused, and Cersei ran out of patience, “Ser Osmund, go and find my brother. Tell him that I demand to see him.”

The knight made for the stairs.

“I am certain you know that it is inappropriate to wander about a castle without its owner’s permission,” Sansa said, before he could walk past them, “as I said, _my husband is not to be summoned by anyone_. Least of all a man such as you.”

Sansa’s eyes were like dinner plates. Her voice shook and her hands were pressed against her legs to stop them from doing the same, the little dove rightfully feared her, but she did not back down. Some misplaced loyalty to Jaime, or fear that he would be displeased if she disobeyed him. Ser Osmund stared at her, but did not stop. By now, Cersei was stunned. None of her aunts had made a move to stop this farce, and the guards were listening to the Stark girl as well. When she found Jaime, she would have them all flogged for their disregard of the commands of a trueborn Lannister, she decided, but she did not directly intervene.

Cersei was curious. How far would the girl go?

“Stop him,” every guard there wore Lannister colors, from the men who had escorted her to the castle guards. They were all frozen to the spot, unsure of who to obey, unwilling to make the wrong choice. Their indecision would be enough for Ser Osmund to walk past them.

And then she heard it.

From behind Dorna, hidden against the devout woman’s long skirts, came a wolf, growing low. Not just any wolf, but the one from Darry, the one that Eddard Stark had refused to kill. For all her anger, Robert had been unwilling to lose both a Hand and a betrothal for the sake of one wolf. Rather than insisting it be killed, he had allowed his precious Ned to send it back to Winterfell, and now here it was. She did not know how it had gotten here, but that did not matter.

The direwolf placed itself between the Kingsguard and the castle, and Ser Osmund came to an abrupt halt. One hand went to his sword hilt.

Sansa’s breathing was sharp and fast, but her head was held high. At her side, a dark-haired girl reached for her hand. She did not have the look of a Northerner, she was not nearly as foolish as the wolf girl was, but she folded their hands together and stood behind her nonetheless, careful to keep her face down. Cersei would have her flogged too, she decided, anger rising, once for her own sake, and again for the punishment she could not give Sansa.

“My queen, please,” Sansa’s voice held a hint of tears, but she did not look away from Cersei. Her hand gripped the Riverland’s girl’s so tightly her knuckles turned white. What had Jaime does to make her fear him more then Cersei? “we have prepared tea to be served while we wait for my husband. Will you join us? I cannot imagine he will be long.”

It had been a long time since Cersei had been this insulted. Margaery Tyrell had managed it. Robert had as well, long ago, when he whispered _Lyanna_ in her ear. The thought of that, Sansa was Lyanna’s niece, was she not? Was Cersei doomed to be haunted by Starks forever? All the signs pointed toward Margaery being her younger queen, but the Rock had held queens once as well. So had Winterfell.

“I will not,” she looked to her aunts, but she found no help there. Genna was impassive, Dorna frightened, and neither Darlessa nor Shiera would so much as meet her gaze. She straightened her skirts, her hands brushing over the lions embroidered upon them, “I wish to be seen to my rooms.”

“As you wish,” Sansa agreed softly. Even in Robert’s worst moods, Cersei had never been so meek.   

“I will show you the way,” Ella offered. Cersei blinked at her.

“I know the way to my own rooms.”

“You are not in your old rooms anymore,” Genna said simply, “as they connect to Jaime’s rooms, they were given to Lady Sansa. You are in the rooms down the hall, that once belonged to Cerenna.”

Her words took a moment to process, and once they did she did not know if she was angry or betrayed. She let the fury bubbling in her chest overtake the hurt as she turned on Sansa, “you moved my rooms from the main family hall? You could not even give me my mother’s rooms? Or any of the others in the hall?”

Sansa gaped like a fish, but it was Genna who answered, “there are no rooms in the hall closer than Cerenna’s. Not now, at least. myself, Kevan, and Dorna keep one side of the hall, Darlessa, Daven, and Tyrion the other.”

“Who moved Tyrion’s rooms to the main hall?”

“He is your brother.” Sansa managed.

“He is a monster,” Cersei snarled.

“He is in Gerion’s old rooms,” Genna said, unfazed as only Tywin’s sister could be, “Darlessa will eventually be moving down the hall so that Myrielle can have rooms connecting to Tyrion’s, and Cerenna’s rooms will be given to Daven’s bride. We thought all of that unnecessary, though, as you said you only meant to stay for Tommen’s nameday.”

“And where is Tommen staying?”

“In the squire’s rooms adjoining Jaime’s. That, at least, is not Sansa’s fault. You may speak with Jaime about it if you wish. Do you wish Ella to escort you to your rooms, or do you remember which were Cerenna’s?”

“I remember,” she ground out, “I do not need to be led in my own father’s seat.”

And she did. At least, she remembered the way to the hall, and the only one unlocked would belong to Cerenna. Ser Osmund edged around the direwolf and joined her, but when they arrived outside the door she abruptly dismissed him. He could ask the guards at the edge of the hall if he could not find his own way down a few flights of stairs. The interior of her new rooms were finely decorated, likely Dorna’s work, and a brief search revealed that the things she had left in the Rock had been moved here. She tore the dresses out of the wardrobe one by one, ripped them from their hangers, and cast them onto the floor.

She was nearly through them when a light knock sounded on the door. It opened without any other preamble, and Jaime stepped into the room. For a moment neither of them spoke. He considered the clothes on the floor and she could not decide if she should scream her anger at him or not. She wanted to cry and shout, not only at Sansa but at the unfairness of it all, yet her anger was slipping.

“Cersei, what is this?”

“Your she-wolf wasn’t even brave enough to tell you what she did? I can’t imagine why, she was foolish enough to do it, and she had to know I would tell you. That wolf-whore-”

“I asked you not to speak of Sansa like that. She is the mother of my children-”

“ _I am the mother of your children_. She has born you no children, I have given you three. You let her throw me out of my rooms?”

“She is my wife, it would look odd if I gave you the rooms adjoining mine and not her. Father would never approve.”

“Have you forgotten me already?”

“You are the one who told me that we needed to not arouse suspicion for Joffrey’s sake. Cersei, what is going on? Did you truly come here just to see Tommen? Did father send you away? You letters said nothing, half the time they were not even from you, but from your men.”

Cersei reached up to the golden cloak that covered her shoulders and unclasped it, letting the lion head clasp fall to the ground, and dropping the cloak to join it. She had already been forced to give up her favorite belt, a beautiful metalwork that reminded her of armor, and so the dress was easy to untie. Jerking at the knots until they came loose, she stripped out of her gown and moved to gather the skirts of her kirtle, intending to strip naked to insure Jaime had noticed.

His hands stopped her, gently wrapping around her own and tugging them away from her clothes. Once she had given in, rested both on his chest, he placed a hand over the bump on her stomach. She remained silent. Jaime was her other half, but he had never been good at thinking quickly. He had always been worse at understanding the effects of the thoughts.

Only when he looked back up at her, awed and confused, did she speak, and once she had started she could not stop, “I found out after you left. I had all the symptoms, but I couldn’t confirm it. I couldn’t tell anyone, I couldn’t ask Pycelle, I couldn’t write to you. If father finds out, he’ll kill the babe and marry me off. If anyone else does, they’ll kill us all, me, you, Joffrey, even this babe. The Martells would kill Myrcella too, say she’s an abomination, but do it for vengeance. I had to wait.

“When I knew, I had to leave King’s Landing. I could only hide it for so long.”

Jaime hugged her then, pulled her tight against his chest and let her tears fall into his shirt, “it’s all right, Cersei. It’s going to be ok. I will find a woman in Lannisport, as I did for Robert’s babe. No one has to know.”

“No!” Cersei tore herself backward, louder than she had meant to be. Maggy the Frog’s voice rang in her ears, as clear as the day she had spoken. _Six-and-ten for him, and three for you._ If that part of the prophecy was wrong, why not the rest of it? Perhaps it had all been a coincidence. All of the Westerlands had known of her beauty, perhaps Maggy had thought that by the time Elia died, Rhaegar would be king. Perhaps her children did not have to die. “I will not kill him. I cannot. He is my child, _your_ child, and I will not kill him. We have to save him.”

“What do you want us to do, Cersei? You are right, if anyone finds out that you are pregnant, many will think Stannis spoke the truth. This could mean the end of House Lannister.”

“We will not kill him,” she repeated. “I cannot claim him, but you can.”

“Me?!”

“I claimed the other three,” she pointed out.

“Because you birthed them! Am I to bring Sansa an infant and claim to have carried him myself?”

“Tell her a serving girl birthed him, or some whore in Lannisport. We take care of our bastards, do we not? Joy serves as her maid even now, and her own bastard brother was raised in Winterfell. No one could fault you for caring for your own blood.”

He looked torn. His wife would be hurt, father furious, the rest of the family disappointed, but what was that compared to the lives of their children? She caught his hands again, and looked into his eyes, her eyes, their eyes, “we have no choice. I am yours and you are mine, my broken soul’s other half. This child is ours, we cannot sentence him to death.”

Jaime took her face in his hands and brushed away her tears as well as he could, “I am yours and you are mine,” he pressed a kiss to her head, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Baelorfan, who's comments I always love! They really made me feel better about my worries on the last chapter. Catelyn is an interesting one for me to write :)
> 
> If you have time, leave a comment, because this chapter has been half-written since the very beginning and it's made me nervous ever since! Hope you liked it!
> 
> Next chapter: Winterfell. As this is technically Friday's chapter (released early because I love you guys :) expect the next one this weekend.


	44. Lady Stark VII

8/29/300

Jeyne had made use of the sling Ygritte had given her.

It had taken many days for her to trust the bindings to keep Ygritte’s babe in place, but after much trial and error, she had become comfortable enough with it to take the babe with her as she performed her daily duties. Snow - the babe’s milk name - seemed happier when accompanying her, rocking at her back with each step she took. While Lady Catelyn and her own mother thought this odd, more than a few of the Northerners encouraged it.

Lady Mormont, on one of her trips to Winterfell, had even suggested that it was good for the babe to see more of the castle when still so small. She had carried all of her daughters in such a way, and her assurance did much to calm Jeyne’s worry. Not even Lady Catelyn wanted to argue with the Mormont woman about how she raised her daughters. Although her eldest daughter, Dacey, had stayed behind to rule Bear Island in her stead, she had brought one of the others, Lyra, who was of an age with Jeyne, to serve as one of Jeyne’s companions.

 _Bear Island knows no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark._ Lyra was short and bold, dressed in pants and mail, but a more loyal friend Jeyne had never met. The Mormont girl had knelt before her and sworn to her, as one would to a queen. Lady Catelyn had not liked that either, but she had her own warrior woman standing beside her. She could hardly protest.

This morning, after the weekly visit with the head cook, Jeyne had collected the letter that she had been writing for weeks, and ventured out in search of the maester. He was not in the rooms he had been given in the main castle, and Robb had not seen him, so she went out to search the rookery. There had been a fresh snowfall last night, but already the horses of the Umber men had trodden the ground into mud as they left. At the Crag, she would have lifted her skirts from the mud, but here that would only have frozen her legs, so she waded through the mess while forcing herself not to look at the mess her skirts were becoming. At least these were a darker peach, which would not show mud so easily.

She found Maester Medrick where she thought she might, in the rookery with the youngest of the birds. What she had not expected was his companion. Arya sat cross-legged in the corner, wearing pants and a slim sword, holding a little raven in her hands. She was attempting to feed the creature a crushed worm, and failing. When he heard her boots echoing in the hall, Medrick turned from his work to bid her to enter, frowning at the babe she carried in her dress, “Lady Jeyne, I had not expected you.”

“I apologize, Maester Medrick, I would have waited until you returned to the castle, but I must oversee the brewing number this evening and feared I would forget,” she held out the letter, as small as she could make it and wrapped tightly, “this must go to White Harbor. I hope to find glass for the greenhouse and windows before the worst of the snows come.”

“If we can get it through the pass, we would not need to cover the windows with wood,” he agrees, seemingly surprised, “Lord Robb and I were already speaking of covering them.”

“The Manderlys will get it, if anyone can,” Arya agreed from where she sat, although she did not look up. Jeyne smiled at the praise. It was unusual in the North, she had found, and ever more unusual from a Stark.

“I am glad you brought this to me, but it may be unwise to carry so young a babe into the snow.”

“These furs were made to carry children north of the Wall,” Jeyne answered. She had worried as well, questioned half the castle before being satisfied with their answers, “they will be fine for a few moments in the cold.”

“A few moments, yes, but I would advise not to keep them outside long.”

Jeyne laughed, “do not worry, maester, I am not fond of the cold myself. Will you be able to send the letter today?”

“I have several White Harbor birds, including one so well trained she can fly back to Winterfell afterwards if asked. I will send it now.”

“Thank you,” she touched her skirts as if to curtsey, a movement that had been trained into her from girlhood, but she did not begin the movement. That had taken many weeks to unlearn, but she was not a disgraced Westerling: she was a Stark. The Lady Stark would not bow to a maester.

Arya was watching her, from her place on the floor. Somehow, Jeyne doubted she was supposed to be out of the castle, “are you going back to your needlework?”

“No,” the girl was as brave as Lyra was, as wild as the North itself, it often seemed, “I am going to review the brewery. Do you want to come with me?”

Her good-sister said nothing for a moment, but Medrick reached down for the hatchling, “go with her. Your mother cannot fault you for that, she may even be pleased.”

Jeyne nearly scoffed alongside Arya, but stopped herself before anyone noticed. Arya clambered from the floor and followed along, close enough to be heard, but far enough away for Jeyne to know that she did not want to be. The courtyard had become no less of a mire. As they returned to the castle, her skirts became wetter and muddier with each step. Had she the time, she would have changed them when she was back inside, but she doubted that Arya would have liked to wait that long. The girl’s own pants remained dry, her boots high enough to ward off the mud.

It did not take her long to find her guide. Jyl Poole waited at the top of the stairs to the brewery, a smile blossoming when Jeyne stepped around the corner. They had become friends over the days it had taken Jeyne to learn the differences between southron winemaking and the northern brewing, “my lady, I expected you sooner.”

“I apologize, Jyl, I had to deliver a letter to the maester.”

She laughed loudly, “you do not have to deliver anything. Give the letter to your lord husband and have him deliver it, or any one of your guards. Is that the babe?”

For once, Ygritte’s child was sleeping when Jeyne tugged the fur off the top of the cocoon, dark eyes closed to the world, so very unlike the crying that filled their days when she made any attempt to put the babe down, “yes, asleep and quiet, for once.”

“Do babes often not sleep? It’s all Bran did when he was little.” Jeyne did not know if she should be offended or amused by the way Jyl looked at Arya. She pushed herself off the wall and curtseyed low.

“My Lady Arya, I apologize, I did not recognize you.”

“S’all right,” the Stark girl looked utterly embarrassed, “do not curtsey to me.”

“I apologize, my lady.”

“Do not apologize either!”

Jeyne laughed, rested a hand on poor Jyl’s shoulder and smiled her best smile, the one that had made Lancel Lannister dance with her once, with half the Westerlands watching, “My good-sister only means that there is nothing to apologize for.”

“Thank you, Lady Jeyne,” flustered, the woman brushed at her skirts under Arya’s frown.

“Some do, my sister Eleyna was a quiet child, but my mother says I was fussy,”  she looked down at the babe cradled within the furs. Snow had cried every moment since Ygritte had left, unless in someone’s arms. She was admittedly biased, but she liked to think that the babe prefered her presence over that of the wet nurse.

“It’s the holding, I tell you,” Jyl said, “the wildlings hold their babes from dawn until dusk, then sleep with the babes in their beds to ward off the cold. I was born a Harclay, and all the mountain clans do the same. Had I been a Norrey, I would have done the same with my babes as well, even here in Winterfell. The Norrey himself stole a wildling, you know.”

“Is it cold in the high mountains? Colder than Winterfell?” she could not imagine anything colder than Winterfell that could sustain life. Well, perhaps the goats and strange cattle of the area, but not humans.

“Oh, yes, the winters were too warm for me when I first came here. At first I thought it was an omen, but after many years I decided that it was just too far south to have such cold winters. Bah, but look at me, gossipping like a girl. Come, Jeyne, Lady Arya, let me show you our brews.”

“Are we still brewing eight quarters of barley and dredge a week?” Jeyne picked up her skirts as she followed Jyl down the stairs.

“Would that we were,” the room smelt sweet and heavy with ale, “we adjusted for the season. Brewing half that will carry us through the winter with enough supplies, although toward the end we will be forced to stop brewing and open the reserves for lack of barley.”

“Do we have enough reserves?” Jeyne had not managed to find any solid numbers on them, even in her scouring Lord Eddard’s solar for anything that might help.

“More than enough, although no one knows exactly how much. The woman I took over from in Lady Lyarra’s time said that we still had stock from the first, short summer after the Long Night, when they stored so much food they ran out of places to put it, and were forced to stock it in the castle itself. The food is gone, but the ale still remains.”

“Can we not count them?”

“You may try, but the farthest I have ever dared venture was five floors down. Something about those rooms that is not right, and there is a collapse in the floor there, blocking the stairs. I don’t doubt that men lacking ale for a few months would be eager to dig the earth away and climb lower, though.”

“We could try to get more barley,” Jeyne offered, as she collected papers on the desk, written with painstakingly accurate figures in Jyl’s messy hand.

“No, the reserves are uncertain, but we have at least five floors of them. Those rooms are not small. What we use, we will replace come summer.”

“These rooms, will you show them to me?” Arya had been looking up at the tallest of the kettles, but now she came near.

“If you wish,” Jyl replied. She led the way to the far corner of the brewery, to an old copper brewing kettle with a large dent in it. Confused, Jeyne looked on as she forced the kettle aside to reveal an ancient wooden door that looked as though it might fall apart at the slightest touch. When she pushed it open, the lock long since fallen away, the air chilled.

Jyl peered around the corner of the door, into the darkness, but it was Arya who went first. Snatching a torch from the wall, she held it up as she ventured to the first of the creaking stairs. Jeyne draped the fur back over Snow’s cocoon before following her, Jyl just behind. The older woman held a torch of her own, shining it in front of them as they followed Arya’s light.

It was dark and strange here, but Jeyne quickly counted each crate of ale that she could find, estimating those that she could not. Where the crates were broken, old glass littered the floor, but they had fallen long ago. In the eerie stillness of the dark, Arya took the next set of stairs. Jyl seemed torn, but fear of being alone won out over fear of the Starks. She waited until Jeyne was ready to follow her lord’s sister.

Floor by floor they descended, each darker and colder than the last. Arya ventured ahead of them, while Jeyne took the time to catalogue each floor before following. Below the main castle, Jeyne doubted that many monsters lay in wait. That belief continued until they came to the bottom of the stairs on the fifth floor down. The air was colder here, but it was not that which caused the chill in Jeyne’s spine.

Arya was crouching next to the collapse staircase, torch held out in front of her, studying the long since settled stone. One hand holding the torch high, Jyl sought her with her free hand, “we should not be here. Something about this cold, it’s unnatural.”

In the cradle of furs, Snow slept on. If the cold did not bother the babe, Jeyne would not be put off by it. Jyl had not lied about the eeriness of this floor, but Jeyne did her best nonetheless. She took the torch from Jyl and swept it in front of them, hands held tightly, they moved into the center of the cavern. It was small, built for storage, too small for hidden monsters.

There were no such things as monsters.

Jeyne glanced back to the staircase where Arya lingered. They kept close to the wall as Jeyne counted crates and shattered bottles, likely from the cave in. The bits of the room near the staircase were easy. Those parts which were farther from the stairs seemed darker than the rest, and Jeyne never managed to count the shelves half-hidden beneath the broken stone. When Snow started to stir, she turned back.

As the women came near the stairs, Arya stood. Her grey eyes glinted in the torchlight, but she looked more uncertain that Jeyne had ever seen her. Even her needlework was done with a steady hand, and mild expression, “there are tool-marks on the stone.”

There are no such things as monsters.

“What do you mean?” Jyl asked, and Arya lifted a hand to point to the top of the broken stone. There, the distinctive chips of a pick could be seen, a pick as large as a knight’s warhammer. These rooms had been built just after the Long Night, Jyl had said. Or had that been during? Jeyne was not sure she wanted to remember.

“They caved in the wall from this side.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Perhaps thieves sneaking into the store,” Jyl said, voice low. “Easier to just unearth it later than to find every one of them.”

“They risked the entire castle coming down on them,” Arya replied, looking back to the stone. “Better to lose food than die in the cold and dark. A guard would have served the same purpose.”

Jeyne thought of Robb’s great direwolf. Of the stories of mammoths and giants these Northernmen told. Of the mermen sailors swore by, even young men on their first voyage across the Narrow Sea. Of the stories of the Targaryen girl and her dragons heard throughout Lannisport. Monsters didn’t exist. Anymore.

“Come back to the castle, Arya,” she said, her voice quiet in the cavern. In the dark. Her good-sister looked at her with those cold Northern eyes. A Stark’s eyes. Jeyne forced herself not to look at the pick-marks above the broken stone, “it should be near dinner. You can sit with me and read the books Robb found.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Jyl was more than happy to lead the way, clutched her skirts with one hand and held the torch with the other, staying close enough that her light mingled with Arya’s as the girl followed behind them. As they came up the last flight of stairs, the woman waited only long enough for Arya to step aside before shutting the old door again.

Jeyne looked down at her shaking hands and tried to calm herself. She had stopped believing in monsters when she was a girl, and here, in the light of the sun, she suddenly felt stupid. What was there to fear? Perhaps it was the North that affected her so, with it’s stories of Others and mammoths and giants, and brave Jyl seeming so frightened in those caverns. The woman hung her torch on the wall and pushed against the copper kettle, using all her strength to cover the door with it again. That action, deliberate and determined, made Jeyne feel a bit better.

Bidding Jyl goodbye, she led the way to the castle proper. When it was warm enough, she pulled Snow from the cocoon of furs, and the babe still slept. Arya watched somberly as Jeyne adjusted the infant her arms, followed behind as she carried the babe back to her rooms, to the nursery attached to them, where her own son would have lived had he not been lost. The wet nurse was there, a Flint woman, a cousin of Lord Eddard, sent to help with Robb’s sons, but she had not faltered when Jeyne brought Jon Snow’s babe instead.

Once that was done, she rejoined Arya, who stared at her with those grey eyes until Jeyne had to ask, “what is it?”

“I had not thought you would venture into the storage tunnels. My mother does not like them.”

That made Jeyne feel a bit better, if more guilty, “I am not your mother.”

“You are from the south, as she is.”

“And I married a Lord of Winterfell, as she did, but the similarities end there.”

Arya smiled like Robb did, she found.

When they came to the high table, Lady Catelyn had taken the seat on Robb’s left. The Smalljon was sitting to his right, but when Jeyne came near the table he moved. Under Arya’s gaze, he moved again, and they sat together. He would have done better to sit next to Lady Catelyn, as the Wull’s son had.

“Where were you?” Catelyn asked, the moment Arya had sat.

“Forgive me, Lady Catelyn,” Jeyne broke in before Arya could answer, “she was helping me.”

“Helping you?” Robb asked, smiling as he looked at his little sister, “do what?”

“We counted the ale in the storage tunnels,” Arya answered quickly.

“We have more than the records said,” Jeyne said, “the top two floors seem accurate, but not the others.”

“You were supposed to be practicing your embroidery,” Lady Catelyn scolded.

Robb laughed, “mother, you always say that Arya must learn how to run a castle. Does not every lord’s wife need to know how to control the brewery?”

“Yes.”

“Then she was doing as well as if she were in her lessons.”

“What are the storage tunnels?” Sybell asked, from her place next to Lady Catelyn.

“They were built during the Long Night,” Arya answered her, “they hold ale and other old supplies. Most of it rotted, but some still suitable. The uppermost floors are still used for storage.”

“And you were in these… _rotting_ tunnels?” Sybell asked. Jeyne could feel the flush on her face.

“Someone had to count the ale,” Arya retorted.

“Arya, be polite.”

“She is right,” Robb interjected, “how are we to plan for the winter if we do not know the supplies we have to hand? It is good that Jeyne and Arya counted them.”

“I suppose we should have them brought up,” Sybell said, “there is no point in leaving them there.”

“They’re waiting for winter,” Arya said. “Maybe in the south, you’ve forgotten, but here winter can last for years.”

“So I’ve been told,” Sybell frowned down her nose at Arya. For once, Lady Catelyn had nothing to say to her spirited daughter, “your goats climb walls and your cattle have fur. The North remembers winter indeed.”

“Aurochs, they are called. And bison. You should see the bears, Lady Sybell, the size of a man. Beyond the Wall, their fur has turned white, but here the gods have blessed us. They have brown fur; we can see them coming.

“Arya!”

“She speaks the truth,” Robb intervened again. HIs brief frown at Arya did more to admonish her than all Lady Catelyn’s attempts, “Crudely, but truthfully. Winter is coming, best we be able to see the bears in it.”

Neither Lady Catelyn or Sybell had an answer to Robb in his own castle. Lady Catelyn took a bite of the roast pork. Sybell took a piece of corn, from the bottom of the plate and not the top, because her mother did not know how to keep her anger to herself. Lady Catelyn, as if encouraged, nursed her wine as though it was her wounded pride. If she noticed that Arya had stolen Robb’s ale, she did not show it.

Jeyne bit back a sigh. _I am not my mother_. Dinner would not get better.  

They suffered through Sybell’s fierce silence and Lady Catelyn’s accusing stare, Robb too busy with his bannermen to notice half the family’s stress. Arya would rise to any challenge, but Robb’s disapproval had quieted her. Stark she was, but she kept her eyes on her food and said little. Better to keep out of sight if she wanted to keep the peace.

To Jeyne’s eternal surprise, her mother chose not to follow when she rose from her chair, Arya just behind her. Lyra and Beth were half up the steps, the northern girls laughing at some joke that Jeyne did not understand, “Jeyne?”

She turned to find Robb watching her, “would you mind missing your embroidery?”

“Of course,” she turned to Arya, who stood just beside her, “I apologize, sister, it seems you must sit with my ladies.”

Arya blinked at her, “me?”

“You are the sister of Lord Stark, his wife is gone, and you stand in her place,” Jeyne could not stop the smile that spread over her face, “have fun with your history books.”

Owl-eyed, Arya blinked, then nodded. As they came up the stairs, she separated from them, padding after Beth and Lyra on soft feet. Lady Catelyn was speaking with her mother, back at the noisy high table, but Jeyne did not look back to find them. Her arm wrapped in Robb’s, they took the stairs together, aiming for the high floors, which held the family quarters.

The Westerlings were an ancient and noble house, it was true. Noble girls were told only what they must know to be prepared for their husband. The daughters of House Spicer knew more than that. Jeyne had known how to make moon tea from the time she was a girl, and although she had no use for it, she suspected the same had not been true with her mother in her youth.

Robb was not a harsh lover.

Some whispers around Winterfell told her that he had visited the local brothels a few times too often with Theon Greyjoy, but Jeyne had not dared ask. Her husband’s sexual history did not bother her, but she suspected that asking about the women Theon Turncloak brought him would. One woman in the kitchen seemed convinced that Theon and Robb had secretly been lovers, but Jeyne had managed to ignore that.

When he bolts the door behind him, and turns to find her watching, he falters. Jeyne laughed, a sweet sound to break the silence, “is there news?”

“Stannis has made Greenguard,” his face is flushed, nearly the same color as his hair. After half-a-hundred times, his hands still linger beside her hips. He does not touch her until she steps into his grasp. His eyes are wide and bright. He is grinning like a fool, but when he kisses her his smile fades.

“Stark.” He mused against her lips. Whens she pulls back in askance, he kisses her again, “Jeyne Stark.”

He nearly jumps at her, surged forward to crash his lips into hers, his hands tugged gently at the tie to her dress, fumbling until her hands join his to help. She left him to his armor; her ‘help’ would likely only make the clasps worse. One of his hands found her neck, holding her close to kiss her while the other fumbles at the leather ties.

Moaning almost involuntarily, her neck is sensitive, but her mother was right when she said men liked to hear their success, Jeyne hooks her fingers into the armor he is struggling with and tugged. Months she’s been here, and she knows where his bed sits. When her legs hit the corner she falls back easily, dress fallen somewhere on the floor, and he pauses above her.

Cersei Lannister is a great beauty; hair spun gold, eyes like jewels, a wife to sell a kingdom for. Margaery Tyrell is as well, the little rose has none of Cersei’s bold beauty, but her plain coloring is made up for by her features. Targaryens were also said to be great beauties, and if Alerie Hightower was any indication, they spoke true. Jeyne was none of them. Plain hair, dull eyes, a pretty face, she thinks, but nothing to rival Margaery’s beauty.

Robb looks at her as though she is a goddess.

He touched her chestnut curls in awe, then leaned down to kiss her. She kissed back, guided his hands to her hair gently, joined his struggling hand in ridding himself of his armor. He clung to her. _Is it a son he wants, or me?_ His hands will leave bruises, but she made no protest, wrapped a leg around his thigh and held him as well.

Let him leave bruises. She nipped at the skin of his neck purposefully, tilted her head to pull her lips away from his, breathless, “I am yours and you are mine.” Robb moaned his assent into her mouth.

Humming his pleasure, Robb sank his nose into her curls, kissed her forehead, and pushed her back, until she hit the headboard. The back of her head rests against the wood, yet Robb makes no move to stop. Not for the first time, Jeyne wonders if her mother ever loved her father quite so much as she loves Robb. _Stark_ he said, and Stark she is. Boldly, she arched her body into his, welcoming the dance as old as time itself.

Something in her blood hums with the beauty of it, with the power. Fear touches the edges of it, but this time she does not turn it away. She is a Spicer, after all, born of the magic of the East. It was said that her grandmother could tell a man’s fate with a drop of his blood. Yet she has always been afraid. _Stark_ , Robb said, and Jeyne thinks of fierce little Arya. It is a babe she wants, what harm could that do, and when she reaches for the power it responds eagerly.

There are no monsters _anymore_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, but this one got long. I just had to get to the scenes and it added up. At least you get a nice read?
> 
> Awesome comments on the last couple chapters, guys! Watching people miss/pick up my foreshadowing is my favorite part of this. I wouldn't still be writing if it wasn't for all of you. Thank you so much for all your support!
> 
> Next Chapter: Casterly Rock. And then Meereen, which I already started when I had some writers block with Jeyne :)


	45. Lady Lannister X

7/19/300

_“Go.”_

Genna’s words had been reassuring, else Sansa would never have dared venture from her sitting rooms. Lost, she had looked to her friends. Sweet Roslin and scared Jeyne were still and quiet in their seats. Joy had abandoned her book for once, letting it rest in her lap as watched Sansa, and, although Myrielle said nothing, her gaze was dark and calculating. Genna opened the door and waited.

Under her expectant gaze, Sansa stepped into the hall. It was not far to Jaime’s solar. Yesterday, Sansa would have thought nothing of knocking when she had not been asked to stay away. Now she crept through the corridors as if afraid to be found, her feet silent on the carpets, and all the while she wondered if it would be worse on her not to be turned back early. Her only comfort was the babyein her stomach, although there were no physical signs of her pregnancy yet. Sansa had seen Jaime mourn for the babe, perhaps even more than she had. Even if she doubted that he would harm her, he would never hurt his own child.

No guard stood outside the door, and for that, Sansa was thankful. She did not know if she could have walked past Ser Osmund without flinching, and she did not want to know if Lady could defeat his blade. Warm fur filled her hand when she reached down to the direwolf; Lady nuzzled her wrist. Voices could be heard inside the room. Cersei was inside, shrill and sharp, a lioness’ roar indeed. She could not hear Jaime, but occasionally she caught a snippet of Tyrion’s voice, and she doubted they would be alone together in Jaime’s solar.

Almost of it’s own will, her hand knocked loudly on the door.

That noise was blinding in the silence that followed, all hint of voices having stopped, and Sansa regretted it immediately. But what was she to do? Go back and tell Genna that she was too afraid to knock on her husband’s solar? The woman would never respect her again. Already Lady Darlessa and Lady Shiera had been more polite, and when Roslin had told Myrielle what Sansa had done, the girl had kissed her face and dried her tears away. Joy had launched into a story about Ellyn Reyne and Jeyne Marbrand, which Sansa suspected was meant to make her feel better, and although Ella fled the room, Genna had not.

She did not want to undo all that work. Better a woman be hated by her husband and respected by her house, than have her husband’s adoration and her house’s hate. Her mother had stories of when she had first arrived in Winterfell, her septa had as well, and so Sansa lifted her head and stayed as she heard footsteps approach the door. Jaime opened it. For a moment neither had words to speak, but then, from inside the room, Queen Cersei’s voice came, “send them away, Jaime!” and Sansa took a breath to apologize.

“Is that Sansa?” Tyrion asked, barely visible inside the room, “let her in.”

“Do _not_ let her in,” Cersei snarled, “we are having a family discussion!”

“Sansa is family,” Tyrion answered smoothly, “she will know sometime, best she be told instead of finding out some other way.”

He held the door open for her to enter. Someone had thrown a book at the wall, she noticed. The queen was curled into a chair, legs and arms crossed, wearing a short, loose red silk with the long sleeves Myrielle prefered, her shawl thrown over her chair’s back, a full wine glass cradled in one hand, the other wrapped into a pillow’s fringe as it sat on her lap. Tyrion’s glass was empty and balanced on the side of his chair’s arm. Jaime closed the door behind her and retreated to his desk, leaving Sansa to sort herself out. She chose the chair beside Tyrion’s, and the dwarf gave her half a smile as she sat.

Jaime would not quite meet her gaze, and although Tyrion would, for once he seemed reluctant to talk. He directed his gaze toward Jaime, arching an eyebrow. The brothers stared at each other until Queen Cersei spoke, “if you are too afraid to tell her, I suppose I must. Jaime is having a bastard.”

Sansa stared straight ahead, her hands in her lap, frozen stroking along the sides of Lady’s muzzle. Half-a-hundred questions flitted through her mind and were dismissed before she seized on a safe one. She had thought that Jaime was becoming fond of her, but if he had a lover then she was not as safe as she had thought, “when is the babe arriving?”

“The first month of the new year,” the queen answered. Sansa had another question, involving why Jaime had chosen to tell his sister before his wife, but she pushed that aside. Perhaps he did love her and was afraid, perhaps the news had come just now, perhaps she was simply being blind.

“And how old is the child?”

Another pause. It was Tyrion who broke this one, after he took a deep drink of his wine and met her eyes with his mismatched ones, “he will be _born_ in the first month of the new year.”

She was bad at numbers, but ever since she had been old enough to count she had counted the months to having children of her own. It took a moment for her mind to place the connection, but when it did her brow furrowed in confusion, “that’s six months from now.” Did it vindicate Jaime or make his betrayal worse if he had sought the comfort of a woman’s arms after losing their Rickard?

Another thought followed as she looked at the queen’s face. Why would the woman who had done _nothing_ to stop her son from murdering one of Jaime’s children make an effort to bring some whore to the Rock? The queen should her with her son, not worried about her brother’s indiscretions. No, not should, because a good person would care about their brother’s babe, bastard or no, but _would_ because Cersei was not a good person, “when will he be brought to the Rock?”

“When he is born,” Cersei answered flatly, “his mother is in Lannisport. Father would be furious if we allowed Jaime’s mistress in the Rock.”

“I do not understand. Three months ago we were in King’s Landing. How did she get to Lannisport?”

“I brought her,” Cersei smiled at her over the wine in her hand, “I could not leave my brother’s son to rot in King’s Landing, after all.”

“You lie,” the queen’s eyes snapped up, but Sansa could not take back the words. She did not want to either, “you let your son murder one of his sons, why would you care about this one?”

“I had nothing to do with what Joffrey did-”

“You may not have told him to, but you walked in and did not stop him!”

“I went to fetch a maester you ungrateful-”

“You were the Queen Regent,” Sansa stood when Cersei did, Lady crouched low at her feet, “you could have ordered the Kingsguard to stop and you did nothing. You did not tell Lord Tywin or Jaime, only sent a maester to my rooms. You had no idea if they would even return me to my rooms or throw me out some window in the keep!”

She ducked the wine glass which Cersei flung at her, and Tyrion shouted something. Before Jaime could come around his desk Cersei threw the pillow as well, realizing too late what she did. It hit Sansa square in the chest, hard enough to make her huff sharply, but she made no effort to grab it as it fell to the floor. How long they stood there she did not know, Jaime grasping Cersei’s arm to stop her, Tyrion half out of his chair, Sansa staring straight at Cersei still.

“Stannis was right,” Sansa could feel the bile rising in her throat along with the words. Cersei opened her mouth, her fury a palpable thing, but it was already far too late, “my father,” the earth spun, her feet unsteady, she staggered sharply, arms rising to protect her midsection, “my father was right.”

Sansa fell to her knees.

The next thing she knew was Tyrion. He pressed a cloth to her mouth, ignoring the vomit staining the rug in front of her, and held her shoulder tightly. Beyond him, she could dimly hear his siblings arguing, shouting and wailing, yet his voice was calm, “you must be strong, Sansa. For the babe’s sake. Too much stress can kill him, as the maester said.”

Her eyes could barely register his presence, but the words took effect. The child inside her belonged to her, it did not deserve to die for whatever it’s father had done. Yet her words would not come, her throat felt closed as tears clouded her eyes. Tyrion tried again.

“You must be Eddard Stark’s daughter, Sansa.”

No. Her father had been a good man. A fair man. He would save children if he could, even Cersei’s children, bastards and rebels alike, Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon. He would have saved them. He died to save her. Yet she could not be her father. She would die. Her sons would die, her daughters would die; Sansa thought of Bran and Rickon and pushed the thought away. She forced herself to smile at Tyrion.

“No,” her voice became stronger with every word, “I must be Tywin Lannister’s.”

Tyrion stepped back when she stood; she did not need to look to know worry was written across his face. Where she found the strength to push herself to her feet she did not know. Tyrion had been holding her hand as she knelt, and he still was now. When she pulled, he relinquished it willingly, and in the same moment, with the same courage, she shouted, “enough!”

Jaime and Cersei stilled, staring at her. It took a moment for Cersei to funnel her anger toward this new target, “you do not command me, wolf-whore.”

“Yes I do,” Sansa forced herself to meet Cersei’s eyes. For her son’s sake, for her father’s, she wanted to close her eyes against the thought of his head falling from his neck but she did not. She could not. Sansa thought of Tywin,of _Cersei_ , and she continued, “you will never insult me or my children again. You will never _hurt_ me or my children again. You will acknowledge that I am Jaime’s wife, the Lady of Casterly Rock, in all you do. You may sleep with him if it pleases you, but it is my children who will inherit the Rock and you will respect that. You will treat me as benefits the wife of one Lord Paramont and the daughter of another.”

Cersei would have slapped her and Sansa meant to let her. Why not? She never would again. Lady, however, had other ideas of what was acceptable, and her snarl was more frightening than Cersei’s. The woman snatched her hand away and stepped back, looking to Jaime pleadingly, “Jaime, that beast, I told you-”

“Quiet, Cersei,” Jaime said. His eyes met Sansa’s as she continued.

“If you do not, I will tell everyone of your indiscretions.”

“They did not believe Stannis, why would they believe you?” Cersei snarl was as violent as ever, but Sansa was not listening to that. She was looking into her face. Into her eyes. Never before had she looked for fear, is that what she saw in Cersei’s gaze now, or was that only anger?

“Who would believe a man who wants a throne? But a lord’s wife who happened upon her husband and his sister in their bed? Why would they not believe me?” Sansa swallowed, “they will kill Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella, you and all the Lannisters they can reach.”

“You are one of us now,” Cersei spat, “you forget. They will kill you too, even if just to reach the babe in your belly.”

“What does it matter?” Sansa had tried to close her ears and shutter her eyes, but she had still heard the gossip. It was funny. She thought of Cersei’s face as she lied, and mimicked it as well as she could. She prayed to the Old Gods, and followed up as an afterthought: Mother be merciful to me, Maiden protect my son, Father do you not see justice in this? “You think I care? You murdered my father. You swore you would send him to the Wall and you cut off his head and made me _watch_! I will kill myself if it comes to it, but I do not care so long as you die as well. You will never hurt me again.”

“No one will,” Jaime said, when the silence stretched on too long, “you do not need to threaten us for that. You are my wife, no one will hurt you.”

“Swear it,” Sansa commanded, fighting to remember a man’s oath in this. If Arya were here she would have known what to say, but Sansa had never sat in her father’s counsel.

“I swear it on my life, on my honor,” Jaime answered firmly. His eyes lingered on her flat belly, “by our sons’ lives.”

“By Cersei’s,” she knew by the way he hesitated that she had been correct.

“By Cersei’s life. No one will harm you, or our children.”

“I swear by the Seven, and by your Old Gods,” Tyrion spoke next, but it was not his word she wanted. She looked straight at Cersei.

“You too. Swear it… on Joffrey’s life. Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella, swear it,” Cersei would lie, she knew, but she had to hear it. Had to hear this Golden Queen, after all the torment she had put her through, admit that she had won.

“I will not harm you or your babes. I swear on the lives of my children,” Cersei sneered, “I never intended to.”

Tywin Lannister’s daughter indeed.

"I hear your words, Cersei Lannister, let them bind you," she knew one vow, even if it was to the gods of the weirwood and not men. She hoped it would be enough. Arya had found it, and all Sansa knew was that it was usually accompanied by a blood sacrifice. Perhaps she would visit the weirwood tomorrow; she was Ned Stark's daughter too. For now, though, it was done. She released a breath she had not meant to hold, and looked to Jaime, “when your babe is born, I will name him.”

“You have no right,” Cersei bristled again, but this time Sansa was not afraid.

“I will raise him, not you. This was not a request. After he is born, you will leave.”

“You do not think that would be suspicious?” Tyrion asked. She took the hint; Tyrion had ever been kind to her.

“Two weeks, then.”

“She will need time to recover from the birth,” Jaime protested. Had it not been Cersei he spoke of, Sansa would have felt worse. As it was, she ignored the twinge of guilt and the reminder of her own pain on that long ride to the Rock.

“Two weeks is all I had, it will be enough for her as well.”

She stepped away from them, Lady at her heels, and went to the same door she had entered. As her hand wrapped around the door handle, Jaime spoke, “ Sansa, please, try to understand. I have loved Cersei since we were in our mother’s womb. You can have a lover if you wish, any knight or lord, any man you prefer, you have my blessing.”

“I do not want a lover,” she did not turn. Whatever strength the gods had blessed her with was fading, and tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes, “I only wanted to be loved.”

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, trying to hold back the tears. When she had managed that, she cleaned her face with her sleeve and returned to her rooms. Eventually, the others would determine that she was not returning. Perhaps they would think she joined the meeting, perhaps that Jaime had taken her to his rooms. She could not find it in her to care. Sansa shut the door to her quarters firmly, and bolted it in place.

The bed was inviting, but she could not sleep. If she wanted a bath, she would have to summon maids. Horrified and stunned by her own actions and the revelations of the night, she stared at the bolt, every action seeming pointless now. At long last, she took a step back, and turned, meaning to bolt the door connecting to Jaime’s rooms.

“You found out.” Genna Lannister sat in a chair near the vanity, watching her.

“You knew?” she was going to start crying in front of this woman, and she did not want to.

“Yes. I thought it best you know as well, but I did not mean to be the one to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“No, not- why would they do that?” Sansa’s voice was hoarse with the shock of it all, “she was the queen. How could she?”

“She loved Jaime. If you loved one man and were forced to marry another, what would you do?”

Genna’s question seemed earnest, but Sansa doubted she would ever believe anyone again. She would never know the answer to that. Her father had promised her that she could marry a man she loved. He would even have turned away the Crown Prince if she had asked, she knew it. She should have visited the young noblemen when she had the chance, then she would never have gone to King’s Landing, never have been here, “my mother told me that a woman’s job was to bear her husband’s children and keep his house.”

“Cersei never wanted to be a man’s wife. She wanted her own power, her own strength,” Genna straightened, frowned, “do not think I excuse her. I am only attempting to answer your questions as best I can.”

Sansa thought of Arya. Her own strength, her own power. Was this what her little sister would become? “My mother-” _A woman’s place is ruling her husband’s castle._ She had said, but Arya would rather rule his bannermen. Sansa wanted to tell her mother. She wanted…

“I want my mother,” she whispered, and dropped to the floor again, crying. As the first sobs wracked her body, strong arms curled around her. Genna Lannister knelt on the floor with her and dragged her into an embrace. Sansa did not know if she was trying to apologize for her tears or justify her actions, “I threatened them,” she sobbed, “I said that if any of them ever hurt me again I would tell everyone.”

“Good,” Genna replied.

“They killed my father,” Sansa managed, “my _son_.”

“I know,” she had thought this woman, this powerful woman with Tyrion’s hair and Tywin’s eyes and a Lannister's smile, would rebuke her. Instead she hugged her tighter. Genna was not Catelyn. She smelt of light perfumes and fresh earth rather than incense and snow, her body was too plump, her blonde hair scattering into Sansa's eyes,  “I know.”

“I told them I was Tywin Lannister’s daughter.”

At that, Genna laughed. As she held Sansa through her sobs, arms as gentle as a mother’s she found a handkerchief to wipe her tears away, and Sansa took it gratefully, “I suppose you are, at that.

“Someone has to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Sansa? 
> 
> Shout out to treagle for their comment on Cersei's chapter, and for Baelorfan for a follow up from Chapter 27! Also to 1thy_truth_is_won0 and aeb, because your comments really made me think about the last chapter. I always love my reviewers because so many of you guys give me great ideas, which might not drastically alter the story, but contribute to the little details which pull it all together! 
> 
> Next Chapter: Meereen! Possibly tomorrow?


	46. Queen of Meereen II

4/28/301

His marriage was going better than expected.

When the Green Grace had first suggested it, it had taken him several days to be convinced that Daenerys would not feed him to her dragons on their wedding night. After the Green Grace had managed that, his cousin had taken the job of convincing him that this was a good marriage. There were a hundred maidens of suitable houses that would eagerly marry him, and none had dragons. Neither were any queens. After many days, Hizdahr assented to the marriage, and the Green Grace saw it done.

The morning dawned bright over Dany’s pyramid, Rhaego squirming in his arms while Dorreqa and Drakahr peered around Dany’s legs at the great black dragon who curled on the ledge above them. Although the dragon showed definite favoritism, allowing Rhaego to clamber over his scales and even inspect his dagger-sharp teeth at her leisure, yet remaining wary of Hizdahr’s children; Dany had no such qualms. She treated the children as though they were from her own womb, and for that Hizdahr loved her all the more.

Today, the dragon seemed more concerned about his mother than frightened of his children. Drogon remained nearby and kept a watchful eye over her.. He had not yet learned why a dragon, of all creatures, would be frightened of two natural-born children, but it certainly seemed to be. He was right to be concerned about Dany, though, she had been subdued all morning.

She was scared.

Only after Rhaegal killed the girl had Dany assented to Aegon attempting to ride it. Now that it was time to test her nephew’s blood, she worried that Rhaegal would burn Aegon as well. The girl’s death had been hard on her. Her brother was being trained as a palace guard, her sisters had been made handmaidens to Hizdahr’s family, and her father had been given enough gold to buy his farm thrice over. Dany had wanted to place the girl’s bones in the hall reserved for the greatest men of Ghiscari blood, but that would have been a political nightmare. Instead, Hizdahr had advised her bones be given to the Graces, which had pleased the girl’s family twice as much.

Dany’s handmaidens had filled the table with fresh fruit and sweet meat, but she ate only a fig before wandering off to the edge of the balcony. Although she made no protest when the children played at her feet, neither did she engage them as she would have on any normal day. After they had eaten, she came to the table and kissed her daughter’s head, violet eyes dark with worry as she looked up at him.

“It is time,” she said, “Irri and Jhiqhi will watch the children.”

Dorreqa had taken to wearing Dothraki riding leathers. He did not know if he should be pleased they got on so well, or concerned that she was taking to horses as if she was Rhaego’s sibling in truth. He stood, and handed a protesting Rhaego to the taller of the Dothraki woman. They, at least, did not seem as mistrustful as Missandei. 

“I wanna come!”

“You want to  _ go, _ ” Hizdahr replied, “things can come to you, you can go to them.”

Stretching out from Jhiqui’s arms, Rhaego would have fallen if not for the handmaiden’s tight grip, “I wanna  _ go _ , _ ”  _ she said, scowling as darkly as her mother ever had.

“You cannot,” he told her, “but we will be back later. Perhaps you can ask your mother if you can sit in court today.”

Dany had allowed that only once, when Rhaego was too irritable to be left with the women. The girl had sat quietly on his lap the entire time, eyes wide and ears taking in everything that was said. Freedman and nobles alike had not been able to keep their eyes from the Dothraki girl with Daenerys’ features. Court had ended early that day, when Rhaego became fussy, but afterward the entirety of Meereen had treated him differently. Freedmen had spoken openly to him, in the same eager, honest way they spoke to Dany; while noblemen had thrice tried to barter Rhaego’s hand. At least they treated him as their king now, rather than an upstart noble.

“Mai?” Rhaego ceased her squirming to look at her mother, and Dany smiled at her.

“If we hold court today, you may join us,” she promised. Neither of Hizdahr’s children dared to voice the question, but she smiled at them as well, “and you too.”

Two of her bloodriders remained behind, along with two dozen Unsullied, while Jhogo and the knights of her Queensguard waited at the door. Ser Jorah stopped her as they exited, “Khaleesi, please, at least allow us to find you armor.”

“Men have roasted alive in armor before,” she replied. Today, Daenerys wore neither silver bells nor Meereenese finery, but the thick riding leathers of a Dothraki Khal, “It will not protect me. Let Drogon be my armor.”

When the came down the stairs leading to the courtyard, her family waited. Arianne had chosen riding leathers as well, although hers were of the lighter Dornish make, painted with the orange-and-gold of the Martell sigil. Her brother’s clothes were in the style of Meereen, although he had left the tokar aside today in favor of high boots. It was silver-haired Aegon who wore armor. Not near as much as Ser Barristan, but armor nonetheless, he looked more ready for a dragon bite than dragonfire. In the tales that remained of Old Ghis, it was written that metal should never be worn when warring against dragons. 

Perhaps the boy was wiser than he knew.

“Queen Daenerys,” all the Westerosi in the room bowed, save Arianne Martell, who met Dany’s gaze while Aegon was preoccupied. Arianne had spent more time with Aegon than had Dany, he knew. She was afraid for him too.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Daenerys asked, once he was again looking her in the face, “no man will force you to.”

“I am ready,” Aegon agreed, smiling brightly.

Ser Jon and Haldon were speaking together off to the side of the corridor, but it was only Daenerys’ Maester Marwyn who voiced his opinion, “I say again, this is folly.”

“Please, maester,” Aegon said, as he again checked the straps on his shield, “today I will prove that I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“What of it?” The man asked, “If you ride the dragon, you have proved nothing, only have won a bride. If you do not ride the dragon, Elia’s son or not, you are dead.”

“There is a chance he will ride,” Arianne protested, “is there not?”

“A chance, yes, but the Martells were distant from the Targaryen line. It is a miracle you can ride, Princess Arianne, and Aegon is both uncertain and a man.”

“What does it matter how distant the Martells were?” Ser Jon asked. Their bickering was only making Dany more anxious, he could see, but nothing could be done for it save face the dragon. Somehow, Hizdahr doubted that would help. “His father was Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince.”

“His father could have been some hedge knight from the North for all I care,” Marwyn snapped, “it is his mother’s blood that matters. If he claimed to be Princess Rhaenys, it would be a different tale, but sons take their mother’s blood in this,” he directed a pointed look to Quentyn and the youth looked away, “that is why Princess Arianne can ride, but her brother cannot. I say again, better to wait for a marriage pact than to face a dragon.”

In the courtyard, Drogon landed in a crash of wings, and Ser Jon turned to Daenerys, “what say you? Will you wed your nephew?”

Had it been Aegon asking, in a far more polite manner, Daenerys might have considered it, or, at least, said she would to stop Aegon from facing Rhaegal’s maw. For a man of Ser Jon’s stature - which, Arianne had explained, was slightly above a commoner - to make such a demand was not only rude, but insulting. Dany was not foolish enough not to know it. Her blood riled, she frowned at him, “if he rides a dragon I will wed him gladly. Otherwise he must wait.”

Hizdahr tried to ignore the jealousy that rose in his chest. He had known from before he married her that she meant to take another husband, but he had not expected to become so fond of her so quickly. Nevertheless, he said nothing. Daenerys was unlikely to find his jealousy any more attractive than she found that of Quentyn and Aegon.

“Let us go, then,” Aegon wore no sword, but what little armor he did wear had been used to secure his heavy wooden shield to his arm. His long hair was pulled back in an orange tie, and his hands covered in high leather gloves. He smelt of jasmine, Hizdahr realized.

He led the way into the courtyard, stood with Ser Jon and Ser Rolly fussing over his armor, while Dany and Arianne coaxed their dragons into place. While Hizdahr had advised remaining in the castle, both the Dornish and Dany alike had refused. Thus he - and, he presumed, Aegon’s other advisors - had joined them. Once she was satisfied with Drogon’s position, Daenerys grabbed the front of his tokar and all but pulled him in next to the dragon’s leg. She then blocked his exit with her own body.

Hizdahr did not know if he should be flattered or concerned.

Aegon’s knights joined them, then, and all the courtyard fell silent. From underneath the curve of Drogon’s great neck, Hizdahr watched as the boy approached the dragon. Rhaegal had been well-fed to the point where the multiple fresh carcasses around it lay untouched. It lay, wings folded, eyes half-closed, in the circle of it’s hoard. It had been asleep until Drogon landed in the courtyard.

“Rhaegal,” Aegon called, and the green picked up it’s head. He heard a whimper from his left, a sound so soft it nearly went unheard against Aegon’s shout. Hizdahr looked to see Quentyn Martell take his sister’s hand in his, mummering words he could not hear. There was no lost love between Dany’s suitors, but the Martell boy was willing to set that aside for his sister’s sake, it seemed. Dany had seen too, or perhaps she had not, but her hand brushed slightly against his, then turned to wiggle into his grip. She tangled their fingers and he held them fast.

At Aegon’s side, in his free hand, he unraveled the long whip that he had chosen from the Unsullied’s weapons. On Dany’s other side, her bloodrider held his own in both hands, watching. Perhaps he meant to save the boy, if it came to that, as Arianne had saved her brother in the pits beneath the pyramid. Hizdahr knew that a bloodrider would risk their life for their khal, was it the same for the khal’s family? He did not even know if the khalasar considered Aegon’s Dany’s family. He did not even know if  _ Dany _ considered Aegon her family.

Daenerys’ hand tightened in his with every step Aegon took. Hizdahr could feel the low rumble in Drogon’s chest as his rider became increasingly nervous. Yet her face never changed, his fierce Dragon Queen watched what may very well be the last of her blood walk to his death and she did not look away. The crack of the whip was like thunder. 

Ashara Dayne began a prayer to a god he did not know, one that Arianne joined, and with her the other Westerosi. For his part, he offered a prayer as well, although his was for Dany’s sake, not Aegon’s. To the front of the Dornish septa, Ser Jon’s hand was white on his sword hilt, beside him, Ser Rolly was just as pale; his hands shook as he gripped the shield he held. Ser Jorah looked over his shoulder to Daenerys, to their joined hands, and back to Aegon. He took half a step closer to Ser Barristan, but the elder knight did not look away from the scene unfolding in front of them. 

Rhaegal unfurled its wings and hissed, but Aegon’s step did not falter.

Because Marwyn and Haldon made an effort to keep a distance from the other, and because Marwyn had taken a position directly behind Dany, the entire party could hear when Haldon leaned forward and said, “you can still stop this. Aegon is not a fool, he will settle for a dragon without wings.”

Hizdahr could feel Dany tense. He wanted to tell this man, not even a maester yet still giving unsolicited advice, that his wife was not something to be settled for. Not a prize that could be won. Instead, he tightened his grip on her and spoke without looking back, “this was not her choice. You will not speak as if it were.”

Aegon laid a lash full across the dragon’s face and with it’s roar he shouted, his words lost in the fury of Rhaegal’s cry. It spread it’s wings and lifted them into the air, and as it inhaled from that cry the scales of it’s throat began to glow.

Dany screamed. The launch of her body forward dragged Hizdahr along as he used both of his hands to keep a death grip on hers. The air was forced out of his body as he hit the ground, and when he looked up he could only see Ser Jorah kneeling in front of Daenerys. He was using his own body to shield her against attack. Ser Barristan stood at his back, facing the green. 

Scrambling, Dany tore herself away from her knight, sent him sprawling, struggled to stand, only to be stopped Hizdahr’s grip. Unthinking, he jerked while she was off-balance, twisting her to face him, “let me go!” she shrieked. 

“Have you gone mad?” he shouted back, over the roar of the dragons and the shouts of the men. Leveraging his position, he pulled at her again, dragged her to the ground beside him. He wrapped an arm around her chest as she struggled through her furious sobs and closed his eyes against the battle, “you may kill me after this if you wish, Radiance,” he said against her hair, “but you cannot die.”

Beyond Ser Jorah, Arianne was screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments last chapter! I was so overwhelmed I ended up making a new icon while trying to decide how to respond to some of them, and then decided to post this chapter early as a 'thank you' for the support! :). I'm glad to see a couple of you noticed what Sansa named the baby. 
> 
> Next chapter: Tywin, feat. Margaery


	47. The Old Lion VI

11/15/300

Tywin Lannister kept late nights and early mornings, enjoying the long hours as the King’s Hand and de facto ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Upon his arrival, he had instructed the Tower of the Hand be decorated in Lannister colors, although he rarely spent his waking hours in his chambers. The great banners and bright colors of his House made the old Tower feel warner, and Tywin took great joy in making his ownership of it obvious, as Aerys had never allowed the Lannister colors in King’s Landing. The two guards stationed outside his door belonged to him, not to the Crown, and Tywin felt as safe in King’s Landing as he ever had, with Stannis defeated and his golden-haired grandson on the throne.

Long hours or no, all men must sleep, and the sound of a smith arriving at his door started him from slumber. Instantly awake, he started bolt upright, reaching for his robe even before he registered the voices. As the arguing grew louder, broken by the incessant thudding of a fist against the wooden door, he stalked toward it, unable to imagine what was of enough importance that his guards hadn’t turned the intruder away. He threw open the door to find his guards standing on either side, watching worriedly as Loras Tyrell pounded on the door.  
He was beginning to have the worst feeling of familiarity.

“Ser Loras? What is-”

Loras Tyrell was one of the more intelligent members of the Kingsguard, although that was not a high standard, of late. He looked more like his sister than Jaime looked like Cersei, and shared the same fierce loyalty. Tywin had never seen him without a sword and never with a wine glass in his hand. At this point, Tywin was beginning to wish he had convinced Robert to foster Joffrey at Highgarden.

The moment the door opened, before Tywin could even finish his question, Ser Loras blurted, “it’s my sister, Lord Tywin, you must come to see her.” Behind him, the baffled Lannister guards exchanged glances.

“Do I have time to dress, Ser?” he demanded, having had enough of traversing the castle in his nightclothes.

Loras blinked at him, and Tywin knew the answer before the man found words, “it’s urgent, my lord, she begged me to bid you hurry.”

“Wait,” Tywin turned to go back into his bedchambers, fetched the sword which lay against the table, and brought it back with him, wrapping it about his waist, nightclothes notwithstanding. When he returned to the door Ser Loras looked more like a frightened deer than a knight of the Kingsguard, “what is it that the queen needs?”

“She is having the babe, my lord,” Ser Loras answered, striding along after him, “Maester Lomys says it will be soon, and Margaery is convinced it will be a girl.”

“Where is the king?” Joanna had been convinced that Tyrion would be a girl too, but Tywin did not slow his pace. He would rather not risk the life of Joffrey’s heir on the toss of a coin.

“Waiting outside her rooms,” he answered, “the mid-wife managed to convince him that no men were allowed in the room. Leonette and Megga are with her.”

“You left her alone?”

“No, Megga brought every member of the Tyrell guard she could find  before I left,” Loras admitted. “I would not leave until she did, but I think the king will not wait once he hears the babe wailing.”

Sansa Stark crossed Tywin’s mind, and he walked a bit faster. He had no wish to be the one required to find a Baratheon cloak to bury this babe in, as he had found a Lannister cloak for Jaime’s son and Targaryen cloaks for Queen Rhaella’s babes. Too many children murdered by their fathers had been buried in the Red Keep during his time as Hand, from Jaime’s son to Rhaella’s many tiny children. He would rather not add Baratheons to that list as well.

When they reached the corridor outside of the queen’s rooms - that is, Queen Margaery’s rooms, for Cersei had retained the ones connecting to the king’s chambers, the rooms that had belonged to Queen Shaera and Queen Rhaella before her. They rightfully belonged to Margaery, but he doubted the little queen had fought very hard to have rooms which connected to Joffrey’s own - a group of Tyrell guards were clustered near the queen’s door, while a number of Lannister guards waited near Joffrey.

Upon noticing Tywin among the newcomers, Joffry stopped leaning on the wall and drew himself up, “Grandfather, these Tyrell men are refusing to allow me to see my wife.”

“I am told your wife is in the birthing bed,” Tywin replied, hardly looking at him. At Ser Loras’ approach, the Tyrell guards seperated to create a path, albeit a narrow path, to the queen’s door, “it is best if you wait here.”

“Bad luck for husbands to be in the birthing room,” Ser Loras agreed. Tywin did not know if that was some archaic Reach superstition or if he was lying to keep his sister safe. He had no interest in asking. It did not matter.

Inside the room, a high screen had been set to give the queen relief from the eyes of her guards, two Tyrell men who watched them enter in nervous silence. Beyond it he could hear half-panicked panting and the calm voice of a maester. Ser Loras ducked into the gap in the screen, “Margaery, Lord Tywin is here.”

Slight she may be, but even through the pain of childbirth the queen had kept her head about her, “did you- does he know- it’s a girl?”

“Margaery, be ready to push,” Maester Lomys commanded, “I almost have the cord.”

“Yes, I told him,” a daughter would not secure the throne so well as a son, but it did give him an interesting idea for marriage prospects. If the child Sansa carried was a son, he could seat a Lannister on the throne, if not, perhaps the newest Hightower son for his Targaryen blood. A fostering and a kingship was a prize for an fifth son, and he was young enough to be influenced. Now that he thought of it, perhaps Doran Martell would relenquish Myrcella if he offered to bring his younger son to King’s Landing, which would free Myrcella to be offered to the Vale. The Martells had as much Targaryen blood as the Hightowers, more, even, but it would be a dangerous proposition. He would be safer finding her a Lannister husband.

If she could survive long enough to be acknowledged the heir, that is. 

Tywin’s thoughts were broken by the triumphant cry of the old maester, “there! Margaery, now!”

The little queen’s gasps turned into a wail as she bore down, but her efforts were rewarded the the high cry of a babe. A mid-wife rushed past Ser Loras to take the babe, to let the maester see to Margaery. Outside the door, the guards began to argue. Just as Tywin would have gone to quiet them, the door was flung open and Joffrey stormed in. Both of the guards reached for their swords, drawing his attention. Both men were the queen’s cousins, which explained why Ser Loras had chosen them to guard his sister.

“I demand to see my son!” Joffrey announced. If he had noticed the guards, he gave no indication of it. There was some stirring among the women in the queen’s screen, but after a moment Lady Leonette appeared, the child wrapped in her arms. “Is this him,” Joffrey asked eagerly, hesitant to touch the blankets. Lady Leonette smiled and gently pulled away the blanket.

“Meet your daughter, my king.”

Joffrey’s face fell, “a daughter?”

He shoved past the woman with more force than was nessecary, one of the guards rushing forward to make sure she kept her feet. No one followed, the Tyrell guards preoccupied with their future lady and the Lannister men too confused to be of any use. Behind him, Tywin could hear the sound of steel-on-steel as Ser Loras stepped forward, only to be physically blocked by Tywin’s body. Even so, he had more sense than Joffrey, who attempted to step around Tywin, knocking their shoulders into each other in the attempt.

“Move! I wish to speak with the whore!” He sounded like Aerys. Too much like Aerys for the sake of his queen, although Aerys would have been pleased with any live babe. He had often lamented that Rhaegar had no sister to wed, always in front of Queen Rhaella and often before Elia Martell as well. Tywin could do nothing for Queen Rhaella, but that was not true of Margaery.

“Your wife is tired. Let her rest.”

“I told her to give me a son!”

“You should be happy both she and the child are alive,” Tywin could see no sword on the boy, and he doubted he was intelligent enough to carry a dagger. Granted, even if the boy carried one it would be no cause for concern. Jaime at seven had been a better swordsman than this boy king. “You have a beautiful daughter.”

“Beautiful? She’s red and wrinkled and screaming!”

“She is a newborn babe. Newborns look red and wrinkled.”

“Get out of my way!” This time the child tried to shove him. Had he paid more attention in his lessons, Joffrey might have gotten past him. As it was, Tywin grabbed the child’s arm and pulled, sending him to the floor. Raging, Joffrey attempted to climb back to his feet. “You can’t touch me! I am the king!”

Tywin had long since had enough. This child had managed to connect the worst of the Baratheon anger with the Targaryen madness. How he had not been quietly killed by some Tyrell agent was utterly baffling. That Tywin had thought he could ever mold such a stupid, selfish child into a good king was incredible. It was the Lannister name blinding him, it must be, “the king is tired,” he announced, “take him to his rooms.”

Ser Lyle reached for Joffrey, “my king, please, come away. It has been an emotional night.”

“Unhand me!” Joffrey tore himself from the knight’s grasp with such violence that he sent himself back to the floor. He struggled upright again and pointed at Tywin, “seize him!”

No one moved. Ser Lyle and Ser Richard looked at each other, then at Ser Balon. The two gold cloaks that had entered with Joffrey shifted uncertainly. Around Lady Leonette, the Tyrell men mummered nervously, while the Lannister guards seemed frozen.

“Seize him!”

An arm was stuck through the door, shifting aside the Lannister men gathered there to allow entrance, and Kevan stepped through. Quietly, he strode over to Joffrey and spoke in a low tone, “my king, come away.”

“You must obey me!” Joffrey shouted, looking desperatly about the room, “I am the king!”

“Any man who must say ‘I am the king’ is no true king,” Tywin replied. He suddenly felt very old, “Kevan, see him to his chambers.”

His brother wrapped one hand around Joffrey’s arm and made to pull him away, the king shouting and writhing all the while. The members of his Kingsguard followed meekly behind, accompanied by the Lannister men. Once the door had shut behind them, Tywin left his position at the screen to approach Lady Leonette, who still held the babe.

“I wish to see her,” the girl pulled the blanket from the babe’s head, revealing a shock of dark hair and the cloudy eyes of a newborn. Perhaps they would become Baratheon blue, iif they were lucky, to match the dark hair. He did not think it was quite black, more the dark brown of Willas Tyrell, but it was close enough. It would quiet the rumors surrounding Cersei’s marriage, “has she a name?”

“Jocelyn,” the queen was wrapped in a thin linen dress as Ser Loras lowered her into her bed. While her cousins wrapped the blankets around her, the Tyrell held out her arms for her daughter and Lady Leonette was quick to go to her, “Jocelyn Baratheon.”

“A good name,” Tywin agreed. The room was too full of people to say more, but she did not need to. It was a good name for a Baratheon girl, a gift when she could have given her a name from the Reach and few would have argued. Yet the queen had a clever mind; she asked a question she dared not speak, “do you think, Lord Tywin?”

“She will be a beautiful queen,” he had to think on Joffrey. He doubted he would be returning to his bed. Sansa Stark's letter was still on his desk, unanswered, and he had a mind to write to Cersei as well. His daughter was more of a fool than he had thought, even after spending weeks on end with her son. Once that was done, perhaps he would write a letter to be sent south as well. Queen Margaery would want a say in her daughter’s marriage prospects, but it could not be sent just yet. There was still the matter of the child’s father. They were not yet done.

The little queen smiled like Cersei had when he told her that she was to marry Robert, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go Tywin (Margaery?)! I do like the contrast, in sweet Sansa choosing a Northern name while finding her claws and clever Margaery picking a Stormlands name as she plays the game.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments on the last couple chapters. Between Targaryen genetics and weirwood rituals they were completely awesome! I love you guys!
> 
> Next Chapter: Winterfell (and then a Tyrion chapter I think you'll all love)


	48. Lady Stark VIII

In the late evening, as the sun sank over the horizon, more of their bannermen arrived.

Barbrey Ryswell rode into Winterfell on one of the finest horses north of the Neck, a beautiful night-black stallion without a touch of white on him. Catelyn knew little of horses, but she judged that he had been bred from Reach stock, and made a fair summer horse. Her brother and heir Rickard rode beside her, his own horse a dappled grey of the heavy Northern stock the Ryswells were famous for. Their men bore only the Dustin banners as they came into the yard, which suggested that Lady Barbrey was not here on her brother’s behalf.

She dismounted before the keep and handed off her reins to Rickard’s squire before turning to find the Starks awaited her, “Lady Barbrey! We were not expecting you. I hope all is well?”

Robb’s voice sounded more like her father’s than Ned’s, but perhaps it was only to her ears. Lady Barbrey touched her skirts in a curtsey that was more a mockery of a bow than anything else, “I have come to report wildlings south of Winterfell.”

“Are you certain they were wildlings?” Robb asked.

Lady Barbrey frowned at him, “I know a wildling when I see one. They were headed south, toward the Neck, gods know why.”

“If it is men you seek, I fear we have none to spare,” Catelyn said, from her position at the top of the stairs, Brianne at her side, “what few men we have are still reinforcing Winterfell.”

“I am aware,” Lady Barbrey smiled sweetly, “the Umbers and Wulls were turned away as well. I sent word to Roose instead, and he sent me men to search for them.”

For a moment no one spoke. The implications of Barrowton asking the Dreadfort for aid before even sending word to Winterfell were not lost on Catelyn. Silence settled over the little group, the noises of men and horses taking over, before Robb spoke, “I- I think we could spare a few men, Lady Barbrey. You should have sent word.”

“Do not worry, Lord Stark,” she answered, “there is no need. Roose sent me two hundred men, more than enough to find any wildlings still about.”

Robb looked up to where Catelyn stood, but she had no more answer than he did. Not for the first time, she was grateful for Brienne's solid presence at her side. Even Jeyne was still, looking nervously to Robb. The silence was broken by Arya, who had been lingering behind her mother. Now she came closer to the railing and spoke to their guests, “is your horse from the south, Lady Dustin?”

In a pink dress with long sleeves, Arya looked more like a lady than Catelyn had ever dared to hope for. The dress was a gift from Jeyne, one she had outgrown, sewn carefully to update its style. It was almost enough to make Catelyn forgive Arya’s sword lessons in the evenings. Lady Barbrey turned from Robb to look at her, “not entirely, but his mother was a mare from the Reach. She cost more than my winter harvest, but her foals have proven to be the fastest in the North. If you like him, Lady Arya, I will gift you one of his siblings when you wed.”

“I fear that will not be for many years,” Robb interjected.

“It matters little,” Lady Barbrey said, not looking from Arya, “I will not stop breeding them. His mother has just had a new foal too. Lady Jeyne, will you see me to the guest rooms? It has been a long ride and I wish to change before dinner.”

“Of course," Jeyne’s cheeks were red with the cold despite the fur tunic she insisted upon wearing, "you must be very tired after such a long journey." The Westerling girl lifted her skirts away from her shoes and led the way up the stairs. Arya broke away to follow, trotting alongside Lady Barbrey to ask about the mare curiously. This left Catelyn and Robb along in the entrance way.

Robb came up the stairs slowly and looked to her, “if the Greatjon or Lord Wull learn that Roose Bolton is sending men to aid anyone who asks there will be trouble.”

“He only sent aid to Lady Barbrey, who is both his good-sister and his second cousin,” Catelyn argued, “not to every lord who asked. He has to know the Umbers and Wulls are seeking aid and has not offered help to them.”

“They did not ask him. They asked me. When they hear that Roose is sending men to those who ask, they will go and ask. We should have helped them.”

“We do not have the men to help them,” she reminded him, lowering her voice to keep the Dustin men from hearing, “and you refused to send Karstark men.”

“What kind of lord am I if I order my bannermen to send men to war and do not send as many of my own?”

“The Karstarks can spare the men!”

“How could they have enough men to spare if Winterfell does not?” Robb snapped, “we have twice the men they do!”

“Karhold is not in ruins!”

“Winterfell’s walls still stand, the keep is habitable, the harvest has been taken.”

“Look at the Glover men, they barely have enough to rebuild their castle!”

“The Glovers are not the extent of our bannermen. Those hit more harshly would not be asked to send men,” Robb paused as a Dustin man walked directly beneath them, “we could at least match those sent by the Boltons. If we send a hundred men to the Umbers and a hundred to the Wulls, then I could ask the Karstarks to match them.”

“If we send men to the Wulls, the other mountain clans will come asking. If we send men to the Umbers, Lady Barbrey will want Stark men too.”

“You think that because we cannot help _everyone_ we should help no one? We can field six thousand men!”

“Four thousand of those are from the mountain clans, who are already seeking our aid,” Catelyn reminded him, “Before we went south, we could field ten thousand. Unless you wish to send untrained boys off to fight the wildlings, we cannot field two thousand. If you send the men off to fight the wildlings then only boys will remain to defend Winterfell.”

“Defend her from who?”

“Lannisters, for one, as you are insistent upon breaking the peace. Wildlings as well. You say it reflects poorly for Roose to send men instead of us, how will it look if he must send men to help us?”

“It will look like we are doing the best we can to help those sworn to House Stark,” Robb shook his head slowly as he stepped back, “there were reports of wildlings so far south as Widow’s Watch. What will you have me do when Lord Reed rides in to tell us that they’ve crossed the Neck?”

“Ask Lord Reed why he cannot defend the Neck.”

“And make more enemies? If Barbrey Dustin is turning to the Boltons for aid, the Ryswells will not be far behind. Not to mention the war brewing between the Manderlys and Ramsay Bolton for the Hornwood lands. Winterfell cannot control Hornwood through a long winter, and I am loathe to give it to the man who murdered it’s lady-”

“Give it to Beren Tallhart,” Catelyn interjected, “it belongs to him. Being kin by blood or marriage to a Manderly woman who happened to be wife to Lord Halys does not give anyone a right to the castle.”

“Again, that will do naught but give us more enemies. You refuse to consider sending men to stop the wildlings, but you want to send men to drive the Manderlys and Boltons from Hornwood?”

“Marry Beren to Roger Ryswell eldest daughter,” Catelyn had met the girl only once, and briefly at that, but she was of an age to be married. More importantly, she had her great-grandmother’s eyes, pale and cold to match those of Roose himself. If he killed the girl to claim the lands, he would be called kinslayer.

Robb scratched at his auburn locks and sighed deeply, “I must think on this.”

“While you think on it, send the Manderlys to aid the Wall. It will calm the northernmost houses.”

“Everyone except the Manderlys,” Robb caught the door to the castle with one hand and left her there, alone but for the sound of shouting men. Brienne shifted at her side, uncertain, one hand on her sword hilt. 

The interior of the castle would be warm, but it had lost its welcome with Ned’s death. Catelyn would never admit to anyone how much she had wanted to stay in Riverrun, with it’s bright sun and familiar halls. Edmure’s wife was well-mannered and kind, and the Riverlands would have turned Arya into a proper lady. She lifted the hem of her skirts from the ground and went to the little sept that Ned had built so long ago.

Wooden walls had burnt, but it had been rebuilt by the time she had reached Winterfell. Jeyne had liked to pray here upon her arrival, the rest of her family still did, although Robb’s southron wife had taken to the godswood like a true Northerner. Cat shut the door firmly behind them and went to pray before the statue of the Mother.

Lifting her skirts to ensure she did not step on them, Catelyn knelt before the figure and looked up into her face. What did she have to pray for? Bran and Rickon were dead, there was no mercy for them. Had it not been for Ramsay Snow, she suspected that all of Winterfell would lie in the ground, brought to ruin by Theon. Whatever else he had done, Ramsay had at least tried to save the castle when no one else would.

Shaking the thoughts aside, Catelyn stood. Off to the side, she saw Brienne knelt before the Warrior, head bent in prayer. Perhaps she had spent too long before the Mother, she thought, too long begging for mercy for her sons. Instead, she knelt before the Maiden to pray for Arya. Robb seemed insistent upon keeping his sister a maid, but she would do well with a great castle and many sons. Again and again, he refused reasonable matches. A marriage to the Smalljon would calm the Umbers, a marriage to Harrion Karstark would ease the burden of sending Karstark men to war, and a marriage to Robin Flint would not only assure his mother’s loyalty, but influence that of the Manderlys as well. Yet Robb refused to even consider a match.

Only after those prayers were said did she return to the Mother. A son for Robb was her first prayer. If Jeyne gave him a boy it would do much to quiet the nervous Northern lords, as well as securing House Stark’s place after the war. Next, a daughter for Sansa. A girl would never please the Lannisters, they would have her pregnant the moment the babe was born. Another pregnancy would assure Sansa’s safety when her brother went to war, and it seemed that Robb was determined to go to war.

Last of all she went to kneel before the Father. She was quiet for a long while after she settled down, the scent of incense thick in the air, the chill of the North at the edge of her furs. Her last prayer was not one she was proud of. Theon Greyjoy was held beneath Winterfell, too mad to tell the tale of Winterfell’s burning and too valuable a hostage to kill. That did not matter to Catelyn. Not after she had watched as her son’s heads were taken from the walls and buried beside their aunt in the crypts. She now knew how Lyanna had been placed there, for no one was brave enough to argue when Robb commanded that his brothers be buried beside her.

She wanted Theon’s head on the spike that had held Rickon’s.

Justice, she called it as she prayed, but some part of her knew it was vengeance she wanted. And why not? Her sons had been innocent. They had not deserved to die as they had, killed by a man Robb thought of as a brother. He still thought of him as a brother, she knew, even after learning what he had done, else he would not have been so distraught. She did not want to think on brothers. The mere thought brought the image of Jon Snow to mind, and she would rather not suffer the betrayal of two of Robb's "brothers."

When she stood, Brienne was waiting at the door. Cat did not know when she had finished her prayers, nor how long she had spent in the sept, only that, when she returned to the castle, the great hall was abuzz with life. She should join them, but she did not have the energy just now. Instead she retreated to the family floors, where Ned’s rooms were still unoccupied and hers were still so cold. At her insistence, Brienne had accepted a place in the guest rooms, as benefited the heiress of Tarth, but just now she did not want to send the woman away. She was on the last set of stairs when she met Jeyne, dressed in the grey-and-white of a Stark, with a Mormont on one side and a Manderly on the other.

“Lady Catelyn, there you are!” Jeyne exclaimed, with far too much delight, “we were beginning to worry! Did you hear the news?”

“What news?”

“Alys Karstark is to wed Rickard Ryswell! Lady Barbrey told us before going down to dinner,” Jeyne was likely too dim to realize what that suggested, but Catelyn was not. Rickard’s first wife was lost in an attempt to give birth to a third child, but that babe, like it’s two siblings, had been stillborn. A new wife meant a chance for sons, and once Lady Barbrey was dead, Rickard and those sons would inherit the Dustin lands and castle. That was not the problem. It was the binding of the Karstarks to Barbrey Dustin \- and, by extension, Roose Bolton - that concerned her, “won’t you join us?”

She refocused on her good-daughter, but shook her head, “I cannot. I do not feel well, I will spend the night in my rooms.”

Rooms that she needed to give up, but the thought of Jeyne sleeping in her bed unsettled her.

“Are you certain?”

“Go and enjoy the feast,” Catelyn commanded, starting past her, “I have Brienne to aid me.”

By all right, by the oath she had sworn, Brienne was a sworn sword. By her own word, she was no noblewoman. Yet this night she made no complaint as she served as a lady-in-waiting. With careful hands, she helped Catelyn out of her dress and hung the garment in it's place. She set the Tully pin that Catelyn had worn on the vanity and tucked her shoes into the closet. While she climbed into bed, Brienne bolted the shutters and stoked the fire, Catelyn watching her all the while. Once she was finished, Brienne started for the door.

"Brienne, come, sleep here with me," she bid, before the woman could vanish into the hall. She pulled up short and looked back, uncertain.

"I am not sure that is appropriate, my lady..."

"You are Brienne of House Tarth, are you not?"

"I am."

"Many noble women share a bed with their ladys-in-waiting. And you intended to stand outside my door half the night, did you not?"

"I... did..."

"You can guard me better in here. Now come," Catelyn threw back the edge of the blanket and shuffled to the side of her bed.

Brienne gave no further argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days? It's a miracle :)
> 
> Thanks for the comments, guys! As always, super helpful! I actually used a bit of what I learned in this chapter.
> 
> Next Chapter: Tyrion (at Castamere!)


	49. The Imp V

8/14/300

In future days, Tyrion would never admit that he had screamed.

He had, of course. The lioness had remained undetected until she rushed out of the bush, straight toward his horse. She targeted the smallest of the horses, the bald-face bay who was all of two years and utterly terrified. While the older horses scattered, Tyrion’s reared, screaming, all he could see of the lioness was her claws as she leapt for his colt’s neck. Lashing out with his hooves, the bay fell back and Tyrion could do nothing for him, could hardly do anything for himself.

In desperation, he twisted his feet from the stirrups and clung to the colt’s mane as they fell, the scream of the lioness in his ear. As he landed with a grunt, the colt thrashed about, at least one of his hooves connecting with something by the sound of it, and scrambled to his feet. His neck and shoulders bled from deep scratches, but the moment he regained his feet he was gone, fleeing before he could be further attacked. A wise choice, but it left Tyrion alone, on the ground, with an angry lioness.

Were you supposed to run from a lion? He doubted it. You only ran from things you could outrun. Still, he could not stay here. He had no idea when the riders would manage to pull their horses down and circle back, and playing dead seemed like a very good way to become lunch. The ruins of Castamere held thousands of little holes in their broken towers, occupied by spiders and ants, but too small to protect a lioness. If he could make it to one of those, he would be safe.

Gathering his feet under him, Tyrion eased himself off the ground, scanning for the lioness all the while. As his head turned to the left, the stillness of the long grass caught his eye and he found himself staring into the green eyes of the lioness, no more than two meters from his face. Inhaling deeply, Tyrion closed his eyes. The nearest shelter was twice as far away; she would be on him before he could even begin to run.

Without any other option, he stayed where he was. She seemed as surprised as he was to find him in the grass. Perhaps she had expected an full sized man rather than a dwarf and not seen him when the colt fell, or perhaps she had simply never seen a dwarf before and was unsure of how good of a meal he would make. After several agonizing minutes - or seconds, or hours. Time was fluid when a man eater was looking you in the face - the lioness growled low in her throat and began to stand. As she did, he could see the imprint of the colt’s hoof on her side, blood seeping from the wound. It hurt, but it was not enough to prevent her from catching and killing him.

Tyrion’s heart was in his throat, pounding in his ears, but short of running and being caught from behind he saw no way out.

It was then that the gleam of a sword came down, missing the lioness only because she lept away, the hooves of Daven’s great chestnut charger slamming into the place she had been only moments before. His cousin wore no armor and bore no shield, but he threw himself from the back of the horse with his sword held before him and followed the lioness. She had not gone far, only darted out of range of the knight and his horse. Daven threw the reins in Tyrion’s general direction, eyes on the great cat, “get on the horse!”

On a normal day, Tyrion would never have dreamed of mounting Daven’s warhorse. The stallion was sixteen hands high and absolutely dwarfed his rider, let alone Tyrion. He was frightened by the lioness and wore a saddle meant for a man twice Tyrion’s size, but he was the safest place on this plain. Despite his fear, he was still a warhorse. When Tyrion caught his reins and tugged he turned to follow to the nearest bit of rubble. Reins clutched in one hand, Tyrion climbed on top of the broken stone, cutting his hands and sending bits of the rock crumbling, but the real challenge was getting aboard the stallion.

Had he the time, Tyrion would have tightened the stirrups to help him, but with the growl of the lioness and Daven’s shouts filling his ears, he did not have the time for that. Instead he pulled the leather strap which held it down, stuck one foot into the center of the strap, threw the reins over his shoulder and hauled himself up. Between pulling on the top of the saddle and balancing in the stirrup he managed to make it to the top of the saddle. Once there, he wrapped one hand around the horn and pulled the reins back until he was in control.

As he looked out to where Daven warded off the lioness with nothing but his sword, he strongly suspected that his cousin had meant him to ride away to safety. Dwarf or no, it would be difficult to explain to Tywin how his son was killed by a lion on your watch. Tyrion reined the stallion around to find help, but he had no idea where the other men had gone. He looked back. The lioness’ spotted fur was near invisible in the long grass, and the further she pushed Daven back the closer he came to losing sight of her.

There were no weapons in the saddle, no shield or spear, not even a dagger. They had not meant to fight this day and Daven had taken the only weapon he had with him. Well. Not the _only_ weapon. Tyrion was not comfortable in this saddle. It was made to be snug for an armor knight, not a dwarf, and he could neither reach the stirrups nor secure his seat. If he fell, the lioness would be on him before Daven could reach him.

Kicking the horse in the sides did little, so Tyrion reined him around, reached back, and slapped his flanks. Once brought them into a trot that nearly unseated him. Twice and the stallion broke into a long canter. He slapped him again, and although the the warhorse did not have a fast gallop, he did have one. Tyrion guided him toward the lioness and his master, drew back on the reins and clung to the pommel of the saddle.

He nearly came unseated.

The lioness fled a few meters from the angry stallion’s hooves. Daven darted toward them, narrowly avoiding being kicked, jerked the stirrup down to it’s normal position, and flung himself up onto the horse’s back. The saddle was a tight fit, but it was better than dying. Daven leaned down to swing his sword at the big cat, driving the horse with his legs. Tyrion set the stallion’s head toward the lioness, and together they drove her from the high grass.

It was only then that he saw the other riders. Bronn was at their head, his bay courser in full flight. His aim was better than Daven’s - and his horse shorter - and when he lowered his sword it came up bloody. The lioness screamed, whipping around to chase after the bay, but it was far too late. One of the Lannister men behind him had brought a spear, and as their horses surrounded the cat her roar died in her throat. Tyrion watched as she sank into the dirt, her lifeblood draining into the tall green grass.

“You a’right?” Bronn reined his mare close to the golden destrier, who lashed out in an attempt to nip the bay. Tyrion tugged him away and scowled at the sellsword.

“Am I all right?” his hands were a mess of scratches, his back felt like a single solid bruise, and blood was dripping from his face, “where were you?”

“Daven and I turned around after we got the horses down,” Bronn explained, “he came to get you and I went to get the men.”

His cousin was dismounting, his grip tight on the charger’s reins, “we will send someone to find your colt. I do not think he will be rideable, though, after she was through with him.”

Bronn laughed, but Tyrion shook his head, “could you help me down?”

He felt better once his feet were on the ground again, but they would still need to stop for a maester. For the first time in his life, he did not want to be tall. The stallion’s height had made him dizzy, and for a moment he stood still. His curiosity drove him to move, though, to push through the grass to the dead lioness. She was a massive creature, and although her spotted pelt was soaked in blood she was still beautiful.

The man who had held the spear was knelt at her head, examining her face. Tyrion reached to his purse, still firmly attached to his belt after all the commotion, and pulled the entire bag loose. He held it out toward the man, a young man who had been rallied from among the smallfolk in the War of the Five Kings, who stared at it as though it might bite him, “here. Two hundred golden dragons; for the lion skin and for my life,” he nodded at the lion, “see that the skin makes it safely to the Rock. I expect my betrothed will enjoy it.”

“Myrielle?” Daven laughed, “she does not like animals much. You might give it to Lady Sansa, though. It would make a fine gift.”

“Perhaps I shall, if Myrielle does not want it,” Tyrion agreed.

“If it’s lion fur you want, we should look through the ruins,” Bronn offered, “that lioness wouldn’t run away. She must have cubs nearby. Depending on how old they are, you might have another pelt or two.”

“Or a few mewling kittens to kill,” Tyrion nodded at the men, “but it’s best if we look. In pairs. If she did have cubs and they are old enough to survive, they might turn into maneaters themselves in time. Bring anything you find to me, if you can.”

Some five days later, Tyrion and his party rode into the courtyard atop the Rock, his hands bandaged, a lion skin salted and bundled carefully on the back of one of the horses, and the left saddlebag on Tyrion’s new courser mewing softly. As they dismounted, Jaime and Myrielle came to meet them, while Cersei and Tommen's little Penrose girl lingered nearer the keep. While Myrielle hugged her brother tightly and Roslin complimented his glowing destrier, Jaime approached Tyrion’s horse.

“I was told you were nearly killed by a Castamere lion, brother,” he laughed, “it does not seem like a good omen.”

“Not as such, no,” Tyrion untied the bag carefully and gently lowered it to Jaime, who lifted the flap to peer inside curiously. Once he saw what was inside, he looked back up, “but we did find these.”

“Lion kittens! Look how small they are!”

“Lion cubs, I think,” Tyrion shook his head, “I could not bring myself to have them killed. They will grow into monsters like their mother, but for now they are harmless. Perhaps the cages under the keep will have some use again.”

“You should kill them,” Cersei snapped, as Jaime lifted one out of the bag. The creature mewled helplessly, squirming, no bigger than Jaime’s hand. He held it up carefully as he looked at it. Cersei frowned over his shoulder, “it’s for the best. Otherwise they will have to live the rest of their lives locked in cages.”

Jaime frowned at her, “we could release them once they are old enough.”

“And risk more lives? I say kill them now and be done with it.”

“You should not kill them,” Sansa had approached unseen while they admired the little lion, “here, give him to me.”

She took the kitten in her hands, holding him carefully as she examined him. It was so light that she did not even wince when it’s flailing caught the bandage on her hand, “it is not hurt. Let me see the other one.”

“The direwolf is not enough for you?” Cersei demanded, but Jaime dutifully handed over the bag as well, so Sansa could collect the other cub, “you need lions as well?”

“Better I take them than let you kill them,” Sansa retorted. She lowered the cub in her hand down to the muzzle of the direwolf, “what do you think, Lady? You could use the company.”

The massive direwolf sniffed the cub gingerly, then licked the creature’s face. Sansa pet the wolf’s head ad gently untangled a pink ribbon from the her fur. Giving the creature room to breathe, she tied it around the cub’s neck, “this one is female, that one is male,” she explained. Plucking the bag from Jaime’s hands, she cradled it against her chest and gently pet the cubs.

“They are harmless now, but when they grow up they will be dangerous,” Tyrion warned her, “their mother was as tall as Jaime’s chest.”

“They said Lady would be dangerous too,” Sansa noted, “but she is not. Neither will they be.”

“Are you certain?” Jaime asked. Sansa fixed him with a sharp look from her Tully eyes. Jaime could not quite look her in the face even now. He looked at the cubs instead, as Sansa pet one with the pad of a finger, holding the bag with her uninjured hand.

“Lions and direwolves are not that different. The cubs are mine, we will not kill them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Work's been slow and I'm allowed to use a computer so I've been writing while there. Hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks for being patient with last chapter's typos, guys! It's my fault for mixing up the Dustin/Ryswell names and I appreciate those who pointed it out so I can fix it!
> 
> Next Chapter: Mysterious POV :)


	50. Lady Regent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had once stolen their hours together.

12/13/300

For a moment, she was uncertain of what had woken her.

The newborn babe - her precious little son with his father’s hair - was still asleep, not even fussing in the cradle next to the bed, a quiet child so like his father. The fire crackled softly, still burning bright against the shadows of the Eyrie, but that was not enough to wake her. So soon after giving birth, she still felt the effects of the milk of the poppy they had given her. Something must have woken her.

She was about to stir from the bed, nervous for her son’s sake, when the door opened, and Petyr stepped in, clad in a dark blue velvet doublet with a mockingbird pin shining at his throat, and a striped cloak. He padded carefully across the floor, his lean figure casting the cradle into shadow as he stopped in front of it, setting the paper he held aside on the table beside the bed. The babe within the cradle did not awaken, and Lysa lay still, curious. Petyr must know she was awake, but he was focused on his son. He had been an honorable stepfather to Sweetrobin, but she knew that there was something in a man that loved his own children.

“Did you want to name him after your family?”

“No,” it came out more sharply than she had meant it, “my father murdered our first son, why would I want to name him after that man?”

“There are other Tully names,” Petyr smiled patiently at her, “Axel or Kermit, even Elmo?”

“I do not want him to have a Tully name. For so long my father reminded me that I was no longer part of his family. He sold me off to forge an alliance, and when he needed help he came demanding. Not him and not any girls we have. I do not want a Catelyn or Celia. Let Edmure keep the Tully names. I want to name our children after your family, Petyr.”

He seemed to consider that, and Lysa waited. He had always been prone to long silences while he thought, her Petyr, and he did not like to be interrupted. It was not as though there was any rush. They were married now, and no one could separate them, no one could harm their son. If her father had his way, this would never have happened, but after all of her suffering she had still won. Her father was dead and Catelyn had lost her handsome husband and two of her beloved sons, but Lysa’s sons would inherit the Eyrie and Harrenhal and the Baelish Lands, the Arryn and Whent and Baelish names.

While her family mourned, Lysa was safe at last.

“My father was named Eustace,” he offered eventually, “he was a good man.”

She had rarely heard him call anyone a good man. The name sounded foreign to her ears, but that was good. It was not something that the grandson of Hoster Tully would be named, “Eustace Whent,” she tested the name on her tongue before nodding. It was a name she could love, “I like it.”

“He will inherit Harrenhal,” Petyr stopped short of touching the boy, likely afraid to wake him, “perhaps even restore it to it’s former glory. He is beautiful, Lysa.”

“Any child of ours would be beautiful,” the nagging feeling would not go away. She did not want to ruin this moment, but better to address it now than to wait and let it fester between them. Robin was the son of Jon Arryn, yes, she hated his father with all of her heart, but she could not hate her son. It had been his birth that finally stopped the rapes, his birth that had brought light back into her life. Before Robin was born, she had lived for stolen moments with Petyr; a rare thing in King’s Landing, “Petyr, what about Sweetrobin? You know he does not want to go to the Gates of the Moon.”

Petyr finally looked away from their son to smile at her. He came to sit on the edge of the bed, gently taking her hands in his, “he is eight, Lysa, a year older than I was when I came to Riverrun. If he is to rule the Vale, he must make friends with the children his own age, many of whom will be lords in their own right when he comes of age.”

“But must he serve Nestor Royce? The man hates you.”

“But Robert is not my son, and Lord Nestor does not hate him,” he assured her, “I had also thought of you when finding a suitable lord for Robert. The Gates of the Moon are very near, and you will be able to see him often if he decides to stay.”

Lysa had not thought of that; he was clever, her Petyr, and always thoughtful when it came to her. Ignoring the pain from the birth, she leaned forward to kiss him chastely, “I had not thought of that. Thank you, Petyr.”

“I told you that I would take good care of Robert,” he assured her, “I intend to keep my word. When our son is a bit older, we could take fosterlings from a few of the other highborn houses. Perhaps your brother might take him as a page when he is of the proper age?”

“You want to send him to the Riverlands?”

“He will rule Harrenhal, he must go to the Riverlands sometime. I expect your brother will foster many of his bannermen’s sons, it would be a good opportunity for him to make allies,” Petyr looked to the infant sleeping beside them, “but that will not be for many years. You needn’t concern yourself with that now. Just rest and recover, the Vale needs you.”

Lysa laughed. She took his hand in hers and twined their fingers, admiring his long fingers, “I have no time to rest, there are a hundred and one things to be done. Armor must be made for Sweetrobin, we must arrange for Ser Albar to serve as a guard in the Eyrie, and there is still the matter of Ysilla.”

“Lord Yohn and Lord Horton are quite happy with the arrangement,” Petyr remarked, amused.

“Lord Yohn's daughter will be a lady-in-waiting to Sansa Lannister, daughter of one Lord Paramount and wife to another. I doubt Lord Horton would have complained even if you had sent his lady wife.”

“If she were his only daughter, I imagine he would have asked for her to be sent to the queen.”

“Which queen? Perhaps he hopes for Ysilla to attach herself to the Lannister one while she is at the Rock,” Lysa sighed. She had no real attachment to the Royce girl, but she had been at court for most of her life. Her mother had served as one of Lysa’s ladies when she first came to the Eyrie, and when they had followed Jon to King’s Landing Lorra had been one of the few to accompany her. Lorra would miss Ysilla, as most of her daughters had married into houses in the Vale and stayed nearby, and that meant Lysa would as well.

“I would think Queen Margaery would be preferable, as Cersei is only Queen Regent, and she obeys her father, at that.”

There was a knock at the door, too soft to be an armored guard, and both paused to look at the door. Petyr gently tugged his hand from hers and made to stand, but the door was nudged open before he could. Sweetrobin stood at the door. His eyes were red and raw and wide, his lashes crusty, his nose swollen and runny. A trail of snot glistened underneath one nostril, and his lower lip was bloody where he'd bitten it in his sleep.

“Mother?” he asked, padding forward toward her, “I want to sleep here, with you.”

“We discussed this, Robert,” Petyr knelt to be at the boy’s level, “your mother needs time to heal after having your brother.”

“I do not want to sleep alone,” her darling eldest son protested, “I hear voices in the halls.”

“The guards,” Petyr explained gently, “or perhaps the maids returning from their duties.”

“It is not the guard!” Sweetrobin was louder this time, and Lysa winced, looking to the babe beside her. He remained soundly asleep, but would not for much longer if his brother began shouting, “It is someone else, someone in the castle. They sing to me!”

“There is no one singing, Sweetrobin,” Lysa assured him softly, hoping her calm would quiet him, “Marillion is at the Gates of the Moon and even if he was here he would not sing at night.”

“I hear singing!”

The babe in the cradle shifted ever so slightly, and Lysa looked down to him nervously, “Sweetrobin, you must be quieter. You will wake your brother and he will cry.”

“I do not care about my brother!” He shouted, louder than before, “I never wanted a brother! I do not want to go to the Gates of the Moon! I want to stay here! It’s not fair!”

With the speed of a child, he lashed out, kicking the cradle harshly. If Eustace had not been startled by the shouting, he was by the kick. He woke instantly and began to wail. While Petyr caught Sweetrobin and picked him up, Lysa lifted the babe into her arms to quiet him.

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” Sweetrobin continued to shout as Petyr carried him from the room, “It. Is. Not. Fair!”

The door closed behind them, thick enough that Sweetrobin’s voice was muffled, and Lysa rocked back and forth in an attempt to calm the babe. He only quieted when she began to feed him, but Petyr took far longer to return than she had thought. By the time the door finally opened again, Eustace was nearly asleep, “is he all right?”

“Yes,” Petyr sighed, pausing before the bed so as not to upset the babe she held, “I set a pair of guards before his door. I told him they would protect him from the singer, but I told them to insure he stays in his room.”

“What if he becomes frightened?”

“We cannot have him waking you again, Lysa,” Petyr pointed out, “what if he snuck in and struck Eustace when you were asleep?”

“He would never hurt his brother, he was just angry.”

“And if he was angry when you were asleep?”

Lysa knew he was right, but she did not want to think that her son could hurt his brother, “he would not mean to hurt Eustace.”

“He might hurt him without meaning too,” Petyr allowed, although she could see by his face that he did not quite believe her, “newborn babes are fragile.”

“They are,” she agreed, looked down to the son she held and remembered holding the other one. Petyr was too wary to touch him, but she remembered how fragile Sweetrobin had felt when she first held him, how innocent and frail. She had not let Jon hold him for a week after he was born, and his son had meant more to the man than all the Seven Kingdoms, “perhaps you are right. It will be good for Sweetrobin to spend some time away. You promised he could come back in a month?”

“Yes. Unless he wishes to stay with his new friends. I will even go and fetch him myself if it pleases you.”

“That is good,” Lysa sat up, careful not to jostle her son too roughly, “here, will you put him back?”

Petyr approached slowly, leaned down to take the babe hesitantly. Lysa guided his hands to wrap around the child properly, mummering soothingly, “support his head, yes, like that. Just make sure to be gentle when you put him down.”

The advice was unnecessary. Petyr straightened slowly, holding the sleeping infant with utter care, the blankets trailing onto the floor. He touched their son’s brown tuft of hair gently and in the flickering light of the fire, Lysa could see the slightest upturn of his lips. When he lowered him into the cradle he took his time, insured the babe’s head was resting properly before he slid his arms away. Eustace never stirred.

Lysa watched silently, unwilling to break the calm that had settled over her beloved. As she slid back down into the sheets, lifted them to her chin and arranged herself near her son, she noticed the papers that Petyr had brought in nearly an hour ago. The paper was small and rolled tightly; it had obviously been tied to a raven’s leg, but from her new position on the bed she could see the seal.

Against the pale, rain-splattered paper, the antlers of a stag were visible, the king’s own seal.

“Petyr?” she asked, catching him just as he reached for the door which connected their chambers, “what is this?”

“Hmm? Oh, that,” he padded back to her bedside and collected it, then strode over to where the fire burned brightly in the hearth, throwing shadows across the room. He knelt in front of it and tore the paper in two before casting it into the fire. When he stood again, the parchment had burnt to ash, nothing left but the smoke it’s quick burning created.

“It’s nothing, Lysa, only some news from King’s Landing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed the diverse opinions on the last chapter :) You guys are awesome, as always. This chapter has been half-finished for a while, so I hope you liked the hour we spent in the Vale.
> 
> In other news: CHEERS FOR 50 CHAPTERS!
> 
> Next Chapter: Jaime (feat. Cersei)


	51. Kingslayer VIII

2/5/301

The screaming could be heard in the hall. 

A maid gave him a curious look as he hurried past, obviously wondering about his haste to reach a birthing room. Jaime had no time for that now. He skirted past her and the pair of knights on the upper level and descended the stairs two at a time. Underground, the corridors were dark and empty, but he needed no guide other than the screaming that echoed off the walls. As he approached the door, he flung it open and stepped inside. 

The pregnant Stokeworth girl was sitting quietly in a chair to the left of the door, her belly near as round as Cersei’s own. On the other side of the room, the hastily found mid-wife dropped a bundle of bloody rags into a bucket before returning to the queen’s side. Jaime ignored them both in favor of approaching his sister who lay bleeding on the bed. Cersei’s breath came in sharps gasps, and when she saw him she reached for him, pulled him close.

“I  _ told _ you to stay in the palace,” Cersei ground out, between breaths.

“I was only gone a few hours,” Jaime pressed a kiss to her brow, gently brushed away the hair that had clung to the sweat there, “I had to return to the Rock.”

“To your little Stark girl?” her words turned into a scream, her hands gripped his arms like vises. When she could speak again, she continued, “when a babe is overdue it can come at any time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime could see that the midwife was staring at him as she prepared the room for the babe. He dearly hoped that Cersei had all ready arranged a price for her silence, but knowing his sister as he did, that work would likely fall to him, “where did you find the midwife?”

“Tyrion had to fetch her,” she managed as she glared up at him, “you should have been here!”

Lannisport had good qualities. Easy access to brothels was one of those, and he expected that Tyrion had found this woman there. She was certainly not used to birthing noble children, as her focus was on preparing for the babe rather than walking the mother through the process. For the first time Jaime found himself missing Maester Pycelle. Annoying as he had been through all of Cersei’s births, the old man had at least placed her well-being before that of her children. Still, she was better than nothing. 

“Where is Tyrion?”

“Where is Tyrion?” Cersei snarled, “do you think I care where Tyrion is?”

Jaime knew better than to answer that. Cersei had never suffered birthing gracefully, but he expected that few women did. Would Sansa expect him to stay by her birthing bed as well? He suspected that she would rather Tyrion or Tywin himself comforted her. Even if she did not, how would he approach the subject? His thoughts were broken by another wail from Cersei, and he murmured soothing nonsense and let her cling to him until she was coherent enough to snap at him again. 

“Stop touching me!” He let go of the wood on either side of her head and made to take a step back, but she tightened her grip on his arms and snarled at him, “Jaime!” and he came closer again. It had been the same with all of the children.

“I’m ready to push,” she declared, and the mid-wife stopped what she was doing to examine her.

“Not yet,” she said.

“I was not asking permission,” if Cersei had not been in so much pain, she might have strangled the woman.

“You can,” the old woman seemed unaffected by the queen’s anger, “but if you do it could hurt the babe.”

“Breathe, Cersei,” Jaime reminded her, when it seemed like she might crawl off the bed anyway, “like the maester told you with Myrcella. You remember?”

He mimicked the breathing as Pycelle had, and after a moment of glaring at the mid-wife, Cersei followed suit, “how long until she can push?”

The woman shrugged, “maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour. It depends on her body.”

“How will we know?”

“She can wait for her body to take over and force her to push or she can push when she feels ready. The babe is ill-positioned, though. It will hurt more if she pushes now.”

Cersei clung to his arms, “I want the maester.”

“Do you want me to find one?”

“No! Stupid man, we discussed this!” another scream. Jaime ignored the insult, but winced at the volume of her voice. At the very least, the guards on the upper floor must be able to hear that it was she and not Lollys who was screaming. 

No, they had planned for this. The underground rooms would muffle the sound of the birth enough to create confusion. Who would believe a guard who said it was the queen who was screaming and not her handmaid? And what Lannister guard would dare spread rumors about their lord’s heir? They might be thought to be a Stannis supporter by their comrades. Jaime held Cersei as she cried and prayed to the Mother that Tyrion had been right. 

“Breathe with me, Cersei,” he instructed, and when the wave of pain was over she obeyed. How long they stayed like that he did not know, breathing together, him holding his breath through her screams, but, finally, Cersei’s body convulsed in a different way. 

The midwife came over of her own accord this time, “now push,” she commanded. Any other day Cersei would have wanted her beheaded for her tone, but right now she did not care. When she bore down, she was screaming again, but this time the midwife did not return to her work. Cersei stopped, gasping, and bore down again. 

And again. 

And again. 

It was the midwife's triumphant grunt that announced the child, and a moment later their son’s screams filled the air. The woman rubbed the babe’s skin vigourously, cleaned his face and hair and body before she wrapped his flailing hands loosely in a clean blanket and carried him to his mother. Cersei pulled him to her chest, freeing a breast to feed him, and Jaime found himself staring at their newest child.

His eyes were dark, so dark that he could not tell their color. Like any newborn, his face was scrunched and his skin bright red, but Jaime did not mind that. These few moments, before Pycelle or Cersei thought to send him from the room, had always been his favorite memories of his children. It was the only time he had thought of them as  _ his _ instead of Robert’s, and when he thought of them he did not think of cruel Joffrey or sweet Myrcella or shy Tommen, but of the newborn babes. Cersei was adjusting him on her chest; she freed him from the blanket and turned him so she could see his feet and count his fingers and toes.

Jaime found himself staring at the child’s head. The infant had a full head of night-black hair, longer than even Myrcella’s had been at birth. If this babe had been born when Robert was alive, Cersei may have had him thrown out a window. As it was, Jaime was forced to wonder where hair that dark had come from. Lady Jeyne Marbrand had brown hair, he knew it from the painting of her which his father pelt, and she had given her hair color to Tygett alone of all her five children. 

“He is beautiful,” Cersei said.

“He is,” Jaime agreed, hesitant, “look how dark his hair is.”

“Tommen’s hair was brown when he was born,” Cersei scoffed, “and now he might be mistaken for a Targaryen.”

“Yes, but that was brown,” Jaime tried to sound amused, “this is black!”

Cersei frowned up at him, “Jeyne Marbrand had brown hair too.”

“Yes, brown-”

“And so did Marla Prester.”

Jaime had not known that. He paused, then ventured, “I thought her mother was a Lannister?”

“A Lannister of Lannisport, yes,” she agreed, “and her father was a Prester of House Prester. All of her siblings had golden hair save Marla, but two of her uncles had black hair like their mother. What do you mean by asking me this, Jaime? Are you suggesting that I slept with another man?”

Not even Robert had dared suggest that, although it would have been true. 

“Of course not,” he pressed a kiss to her head, and then gently touched the babe’s tuft of hair, “I only thought it amusing. All of ‘Robert’s’ children had blonde hair, and now this one has black?”

“Not black, dark brown,” Cersei corrected, “and it is  _ not _ funny.”

“I apologize-”

“Good. Now go see to arrangements to get the babe back to the Rock without alerting anyone,” Cersei commanded, “I will see to everything here.”

Jaime did as he was told. Cersei had a temper at the best of times, and the last time he had refused to leave her after a babe was born she had thrown a glass of water at him, sending it all over the room. As he came up the stairs, he found that the guards had mostly gone and the corridors were as quiet as the floors below. Only Ser Osmund waited at the top of the stairs. 

“What happened to the Lannister men?”

“I sent them away,” the man reported, “they were green boys, frightened at the sounds of a woman screaming.”

“You could hear the Stokeworth girl from here?”

“Aye,” he studied Jaime calmly, “is the queen safe?”

“She is still seeing to Lollys,” Jaime explained, “you are to remain up here unless you are summoned. They sent me away when the midwife wanted to remove the screen and I do not know if the lady is dressed appropriately for visitors.”

“As you say.”

Jaime left him there and ventured out of the little hallway. Even in the greater rooms, no one was present. The guards were gone and the maids as well, it made the palace eerie. When he came to the next floor, he was nearly run over by a guard on his way down the steps. The man apologized thrice, then hurried down. From his place on the stairs, Jaime could see that he was exiting the palace rather than taking up a post.

In the study that normally belonged to their father - although his last visit to the summerhome in Lannisport had been when Jaime’s mother was alive - he found Tyrion. His brother was reading some history or the other, this one with dragons on the cover. Although he lounged in a chair next to a table holding a decanter of wine, it was mostly full. He looked up as Jaime came in, “I trust everything worked out?”

He was met with a blank stare. After a moment, Jaime said, “there is no one on the lower floor.”

“Yes, I feared that someone might hear our sweet sister a bit too clearly,” Tyrion filled a second glass to the brim with wine and offered it to Jaime, “I ordered everyone to leave to give ‘Lollys’ a bit of privacy.”

“That could make them suspicious.”

“Better suspicious than carrying a story of the queen’s screaming during her handmaiden’s birth,” Jaime took the glass and sat stiffly in the chair on the other side of the table, Tyrion's Gaze following him all the while, “drink.”

“I still need to take the babe to the Rock.”

“Like that? Half the Westerlands will know before you exit the front door. Drink,” Jaime obeyed, taking several deep swallows of the wine before he realized what it was. He held the glass up to examine it, then looked to the bottle of Arbor Red beside him. Before he could ask, Tyrion went on, “how is our sister?”

“It was an easier birth than Joffrey’s. I expect she will be able to travel to the Rock within the week.”

Tyrion nodded, “and the babe?”

“He has black hair,” Jaime had not meant to say it like that, but there it was. Tyrion considered him calmly.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no of course not,” Jaime insisted. Tyrion picked up the decanter and filled his own glass, “I mentioned it to Cersei as well. She reminded me that Marla Prester’s grandmother had black hair.”

Tyrion was staring at him.

“She… she did have black hair, right?”

“Yes,” Tyrion was still staring, even as he lifted the glass to his lips, “she did. She was a Morrigen from the Stormlands. I do wonder how Cersei knew that, though.”

“She is not stupid.”

“I did not say she was,” Tyrion pointed out, taking a long drink, “I only said that it surprises me that Cersei knows about the history of noble houses in the Westerlands. She is not stupid, but neither does she study history.”

“But she was right.”

“Yes, she was. Marla Prester’s grandmother was a black-haired Morrigen, who wed a blonde Prester and went on to have seven children, two with blonde hair. One of those was her eldest, Marla Prester’s father, who wed a blonde Lannister of Lannisport and had four blonde children, including Lord Martyn and Marla herself. Marla then married blonde Jason Lannister and they had three sets of twins: blonde Joanna and blonde Stafford, one set of twins that died shortly after birth, and one more set of blonde twins who both died young. Joanna then married our  _ blonde _ father, and gave birth to one set of blonde twins and one blonde dwarf. Those twins then had three blonde children together.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I am not trying to say anything,” Tyrion watched him dubiously, “I am informing you on the history of hair colors in our family. Any doubts you have about the parentage of the child Cersei just birthed are your own.”  

“Lady Jeyne Marbrand had brown hair too.”

“She did,” Tyrion agreed, “and Rohanne Webber was a redhead who married Gerold the Golden, himself a blonde, and they had blonde haired Jason and Tytos, brown haired Tywald, and redheaded Tion. Tytos married Lady Jeyne and they had five children, four of whom were blonde.”

“It is not impossible!”

“You are right,” Tyrion drank more of his wine and Jaime wondered why his brother’s agreement only upset him further.

“I do not want to talk about this right now,” the wine could be replaced. He drank the glass and reached for the decanter.

“As you wish.”

“And what about Sansa?”

Tyrion eyed him, “Sansa is a redhead.”

“No,” Jaime scowled at him, “not that. Do you think Sansa will want me present when she gives birth?”

“I am not a woman, so I do not know.”

“I think it would be rather awkward.”

“To watch your wife give birth a fortnight after your lover does? Yes, I would think so.”

“ _ Asking _ her if she wants me present, would be awkward.”

“Because you did not need to ask your lover or because you have a lover?”

“You are not helping.”

“I was not trying to,” Tyrion replied, “I am already helping you to hide your relationship with our sister from the rest of the world while you leave your heavily pregnant wife alone in a castle. Do you want me to help?”

“If you could, yes.”

“Very well,” Tyrion agreed, “I will ask Myrielle if Sansa would like you to be with her when she gives birth.”

Jaime rubbed his hand over his face and set the glass aside, “thank you.”

“You are welcome. Have you seen the work we have done at Castamere?”

“Tell me of it,” Jaime instructed, leaning back in his chair. It was a more pleasant subject than Sansa and Cersei, and it would save him from a lecture about favoring Cersei over his wife. That it prevented him from thinking about his new son was a benefit as well. 

Tyrion was just beginning to explain the plans for recovering the castle when a knock sounded on the door. A glance out of the window told him that it was still mid-day, but less time had passed than he expected, only a few hours. Tyrion bid the maid to enter and a pretty servant girl opened the door, “I beg pardon, m’lords, but Ser Osmund has asked me to summon Lord Jaime on the queen’s behalf.”

Jaime rose instantly, “did he say anything else?”

“No, m’lord.”

How much had Cersei told her guard? Ser Osmund was the king’s man, it was unwise to inform him of too much. Perhaps Cersei did not realize it, but Jaime knew better than to trust in the honor of a Kingsguard. The stairs were shorter going down, and he all but ran through the corridors to return to the basement rooms. At the bottom of the stairs which led underground, Ser Osmund waited.

“Queen Cersei requests that you take the babe to the Rock. She believes that Lollys is too weak to travel and will remain here with her,” gently, he held out the babe so that Jaime could take him. Tyrion would be down soon with the basket, but for a moment it was only Jaime and the babe.

Dark eyes and dark hair, the babe looked up at him and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, update on the Casterly Rock mess. To keep everyone up with canon/MK differences, Cersei only slept with Osney (the youngest brother) in canon, the same holds true here.
> 
> You guys leave the best reviews. I have a review asking me if I'm going to do something I hadn't even bothered to foreshadow yet. I guess I don't have to? But then that would mess up my plot xD
> 
> Next Chapter: Arianne


	52. Kingmaker IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares....

5/7/301

Aegon laid a lash full across the dragon’s face and with it’s roar he shouted, his words lost in the fury of Rhaegal’s cry. It spread it’s wings and lifted them into the air, and as it inhaled from that cry the scales of it’s throat began to glow.

The queen screamed somewhere to her right. As Arianne darted forward, Daenerys, her husband, and her Queensguard turned into a writhing mass of bodies at the corner of her vision. Quentyn shouted after her and the thud of boots behind her must belong to Ser Garibald or Drey, one Dornishman or another, but that did not comfort her. Rhaegal finished it’s inhale and tilted its head to focus on Aegon, who, seeing the dragon’s intent, lifted his shield as it began to spray fire.

That was the last Arianne saw of him. The flames were so hot that her body stopped of its own accord, but the moment she realized what she had done she was running again. Ser Jon shouted somewhere behind her, attempting to draw the dragon away from Aegon. A rock flew past her, but she did not see if it struck the dragon. The would-be dragon rider was crouched behind his shield, having managed the miracle of surviving the flames. Arianne found the dagger at her belt that she had carried all the way across the Narrow Sea, a gift from Tyene that she had thought too thin to be of any use, but sharper than any sword that Arianne had ever held.

She grabbed Aegon’s arm, thrust the dagger through the leather straps holding his shield in place, and pulled straight up. They gave with astonishing ease and the burning shield hit the ground. Aegon tore the metal from his arm and threw himself backward into the sand to put out his smouldering clothes, but Arianne stared at the shield. Whatever Aegon’s maester had done to it had left it mostly intact, even after the fury of dragonfire, and only now was it beginning to crumble to pieces.

The uses that could have in dragon-ruled Dorne.

“Arianne! Behind you!” Drey’s voice jerked her back to the present, and she turned to find that Rhaegal had lost interest in Aegon’s knights - and her own, she could see Ser Garris and Drey there too, and her stupid, brave little brother with a useless sword in hand - and had turned on them. The dragon’s head snaked forward with astonishing speed and Arianne screamed, not from fear, but from the sudden and unexpected pain as Rhaegal’s jaws came down on Viserion’s front leg. The white-and-gold dragon was smaller, but determined, and she breathed fire over her larger sibling’s wings in retaliation.

Turning, she grabbed Aegon’s hand, pleased to see that he was finally not on fire, and pulled him with her. He stumbled to his feet and followed as she ran for Viserion. It was likely unwise to approach two fighting dragons, but they had little choice. Right now, she was glad she decided to skip the tokar for this misadventure. When she let go of her cousin to find a handhold on the dragon’s scales, he grabbed her waist and nearly threw her onto Viserion’s back. Clinging to her spikes, she could feel Viserion prepare to launch herself into the air; she had come for her rider, not for Aegon or the other men.

At the last moment she leaned down and caught Aegon’s wrist, and they were airborne. He had not expected the sudden lurch, but when Arianne began to slide, Viserion jerked to the left to compensate and Arianne leaned right. Somehow, Aegon reached up with his right hand and dragged himself onto the dragon’s scales behind her. Once he had, Arianne looked down for Rhaegal and found the green just below them. Out of options, she kicked Viserion like she might a horse, and to her surprise the dragon turned and fled as she had wanted. Behind her, Aegon leaned forward to grasp at Viserion’s spikes, but she hardly noticed.

Every beat of Viserion’s wings was energizing, the pain in the dragon’s arm was her own, and the urge to turn and fight her sibling was overwhelming. They had fought before, and although her sibling was larger and defending a nest, she was faster. It was a fair match, unlike those where their black sibling or their mother intervened, but if teeth or claws or fire should happen to hit the scaleless dragon on her back… she pumped her wings and climbed higher.

On the earth beneath them she could smell the two-legs despair, but it was their mother’s voice that caught her attention. She was fighting with the two-leg that smelt of their littlest sibling, but mother could manage herself. Their black brother was there to aid her, if she could not. Behind her, the green sister breathed fire, but she tilted her wings and curved to the left, avoiding the flames with ease. The scent of her mother gave her an idea - for their mother hated it when they fought - and she rolled to the right, under the flames and the green sister. It was not the smoothest landing, but she did manage to place the black brother between she and her pursuer.  Still, it put too much pressure on her foreleg. The landing threw her off balance, and although she managed to not crush the scaleless ones on her back, she was in no position to defend herself.

Aegon had picked her up. She was braced against his chest under Viserion’s wing, but that would provide little defense from the oncoming dragon. Rhaegal screamed, and Aegon drew them both back, ignoring her struggles. One of his hands wrapped into her hair to pull her head down below his shoulders, but before he managed it she watched Rhaegal’s fiery throat as the dragon neared and screamed.

Arianne sat bolt upright, the sound of Drogon’s roar ringing in her ears along with her own cry.

The silk sheets of her bed were damp with her sweat. As she kicked them away, a hand touched her shoulder hesitantly, and she turned to find Aegon blinking sleepily at her from the other side of the bed. His skin was cool to the touch, unlike her own, and his silver hair glowed in the moonlight which streamed through the window, “bad dreams again?”

“Yes,” she admitted. Arianne allowed him to pull her closer as his eyes drifted closed, “you?

“Not tonight,” Aegon dreamed of dragonfire, while she was fated to relive the entire episode in her dreams. She lay beside him in the moonlight as his breath deepened and slowed, but she could not sleep. Not again. How many times had she fallen back to sleep only to dream the same dream that had woken her? How did Oberyn or Obara sleep at all?

Dawn was upon them by the time she gave up on sleep, one knight or another tramping through the corridor on his way to the practice field. Aegon did not move as she untangled herself from the bed, pulled the hem of his shirt down, and stepped into the hall. All was silent and motionless as she padded across the floor and paused before her brother’s room. Knocking crossed her mind, but she could not imagine Quentyn sleeping with a woman, nevermind one in Daenerys’ proximity. She turned the handle quietly and nudged the door open.

Quentyn was asleep on the bed, half-snoring, and Arianne wondered if he had nightmares of Rhaegal too. She padded across the room, careful to avoid the shining sword on the chair next to his bed, and prodded him with one finger. Her brother rolled over and peered at her though sleep-baffled eyes, “Arianne?”

“Move,” she commanded, and he dutifully shuffled over to the opposite side of the bed. She climbed in beside him, pulled the too-hot sheet over her body, and lay beside him, backs pressed together. As the sleep left him, he stirred, moving to sit up, and became inquisitive.

“Arianne, what are you doing here?”

“I dreamed of Rhaegal,” she admitted, “and I thought of you.”

“Oh,” when Arianne had been very young, she could remember Quentyn crawling into her bed in the nursery because their parents were missing. She had laughed at him, but let him stay, “are you ok?”

“Yes. Quentyn, I-” she turned her head to see the side of his face as he lit a candle, “I am sorry. About how everything turned out.”

“Everything?”

“Daenerys, I mean. You were supposed to marry her and bring her to Westeros and be a king.”

Quentyn laughed softly, “I never wanted to be a king. I only wanted to not disappoint father. I would not know what to do with Daenerys if I had her. Now that father has his dragon, I can marry Gwyneth Yronwood and live the rest of my life at your court with my books for company.”

“Gwyneth?” She could not see Quentyn well, but she knew that he was blushing, “she’s what, fifteen?”

“Yes. It was the bit about the books I meant for you to notice, Arianne.”

“You want me to swear that you shall always have a place by my hearth?”

“You are my sister. You need not swear.”

“Nonetheless, I will if it pleases you. When I am the Princess of Dorne I will divert the Torrentine east and make Dorne bloom. We will again be the power we were in the days of Nymeria,” Quentyn had moved across the floor to sort through the pile of tokars he kept, “why do you wear those, if you do not wish to woo the queen?”

“Why do you?”

“If I meant to seduce Daenerys, I would not wear a tokar,” Quentyn stared at her. Oh. He had a point, at least, “I wear them to court the Meereenese nobles. Why do you wear them?”

“To help you court the Meereenese nobles. Why would they believe that you care for their plight if your brother does not?”

“I do not believe you.”

He laughed, “do you not have some important meeting to attend?”

She did. Daenerys prefered to have her counsel meet in the cool of the morning. Of late, she had taken to vanishing with Drogon afterward, but Arianne could hardly blame her. Poor Viserion was heartbroken so long as she was grounded, but Maester Marwyn had insisted that she did not fly until her wing was healed. Dragons were calmer when they had stretched their wings.

“Do you want to join me?”

“No, I have to finish reading those,” he motioned to a haphazard pile of scrolls on his desk, “before I speak with Maester Marwyn this morning. Go on, sweet sister, before your prince starts to miss you.”

“He is not _my_ prince.”

“Neither is he Daenerys’ prince,” she and Quentyn considered each other. He was not wrong, but she had hoped for at least her brother to be encouraging. It could turn into war between Aegon and Daenerys if they were not careful. Aegon had the stronger claim, yes, but Daenerys had dragons. She would be a fool to back Aegon should such a thing happen, but she could not let him be burned before her eyes.

“Someone must marry him.”

“The queen is not someone. Ser Garibald calls her ‘Aegon the Conqueror, with teats’.”

“ _Ser Garibald_ makes a poor Dornishman.”

“He only meant it in jest.”

“He should not make such jests,” Arianne frowned, “even if I did not take offense, the queen might. I would rather not see an offended dragon.”

Quentyn chuckled as Arianne stood, taking his sleeping silks with her. She padded to the door, caught his sword along the way, and winced as it clattered to the floor. Quentyn laughed at her, but she caught the door and tugged it open, meaning to snub him, but paused before she could make a show of it. There was a man in the hall, knocking at Aegon’s door. Aegon was, of course, in her rooms.

“Ser, what is it you seek?” she called. Quentyn pulled the door wider to see what she did, his poor sword in one hand. The man turned around. He was an Unsullied, younger than Quentyn but more world-weary.

“The queen requested the presence of her nephew.”

“I will wake him,” she promised, “thank you for telling us.”

“The queen also requested that I give you this,” he held out a scrap of paper that looked like a dog had been at it, but in the light filtering through the corridor’s window she could make out the seal of orange wax. The moment Arianne plucked it from his hand the Unsullied was gone, headed down the hall, but she hardly noticed his departure.

“Look,” she bid Quentyn as she turned the parchment over to see the seal. The Martell sun and spear were set in the orange wax of Doran Martell’s personal arms, “it is father’s seal.

He hovered over her shoulder as she tore it open, “what does it say?”

“Father wants to know when Daenerys will arrive in Westeros,” she read quickly, “he asks after you and says he is eager to Daenerys...again?”

“When did father see Daenerys? The marriage contract was signed by Oberyn. If father was there he would have signed it instead.”

“I do not know, but that is what the letter says,” Arianne skimmed down the the bottom and paused. She read the words thrice before they began to sink in, “and he sends news from King’s Landing.”

“What news?” When Quentyn reached for the parchment she released it. He read it more carefully than she had, but at the end he seemed just as pensive, “father would not have written it if it was not true. You should take this to the queen.”

“I should,” Arianne agreed. She took the paper and returned to her room. Aegon was sitting on the bed, tying one of his boots when she came in. She was not sure when exactly he had started leaving clothes in her room, but he had found a new shirt in her absence. His hair was tied back in one of her orange ribbon and he did not look up when she entered the room.

The maids would be in soon, but Arianne had no time to wait. She arranged a green tokar with a fringe of white Myrish lace about herself, and hurried back for the paper. Again she read it. It was good news for House Targaryen, but the queen had never delighted in the death of children. By now Aegon had dressed and was lounging on her bed, enjoying the breeze from the windows, “is something wrong?”

“I am not sure,” she acknowledged, “there is news from King’s Landing. First, though, the queen wishes you to visit her,” she batted the boot hanging off the edge of her bed, “get up!”

“I am up,” he retorted, but he stood nonetheless and made to follow her out of her room and up the steep stairs of the pyramid. By the time they reached the floor where Daenerys’ counsel met, Arianne was out of breath. Nevertheless, she shoved past the Unsullied who guarded the door and let the _smack_ of the door against the wall announce her instead.

Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah nearly jumped out of their skins, but Daenerys merely looked up from her place beside Hizdahr at the end of the table, “Did you bring Aegon?”

“Yes,” Arianne panted.

“Good,” she said. She queen was dressed in Dothraki riding leathers and a blue silk blouse. She turned to Aegon as he walked through the door behind her, “I have decided it might be best if we put off invading Westeros for a few years. Until the dragons are big enough to truly fight and be expected to win every battle.”

“I have heard worse plans,” Aegon said, after a moment’s hesitation. He had gone slower on the stairs and, while Arianne could fight with spear and sword and shield as well as any man, he was fitter than she due to his daily practice sessions, “I admit, even Drogon is not large enough to create a new Field of Fire, should it come to that. How long do you want to wait?”

“Until they are large enough,” the queen replied, “we do not know everything about dragon growth, but once they reach a certain size we can start planning.”

“I must think on this,” Aegon shook his head softly, “Jon wants to invade now, but you are right. The dragons would be a great boon,” he paused and looked at Arianne, “but Arianne has news.”

“From the letter that arrived this morning?” Daenerys asked, “it had the seal of House Martell on it, but the captain who gave it to me said that it had traded hands many times. He knew it must come to Meereen, but not who sent it.”

“It was from my father,” Arianne answered, “he sent word that came from my uncle in King’s Landing.”

“What does he say?” Daenerys brushed back her hair. It was just long enough to get in her face, but still too short to be tied back properly.

Arianne smiled, “there has been a death in the “royal family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Aegon's not dead! And Quentyn's not plotting against Dany! I wonder who is. Someone is always plotting, you know.
> 
> I really appreciate your comments, guys! We only have 23 chapters left, so I might make a short ~5 chapter Jaime/Sansa romance during the time skip. Someone mentioned not wanting the relationship to just leap and I can see the problem :)
> 
> Next chapter: Sansa


	53. Lady Lannister XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and  
> hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods

2/17/301

The lion cubs liked to bite.

Well, one of them did. The little female - Sansa had named her Nala  - was physically differentiated from her brother by only the pink ribbon tied about her neck and the extra white on her neck, but Tyrion claimed could tell them apart by their likelihood of them nipping his hands. Although they had fit in the palm of his hands once, now their heads were easily twice the size of Jaime’s hands. Nala left marks while trying to be gentle, but the male cub, who she'd named Knight, was a tamer thing.

He was a bit larger than his sister, but his claws stayed sheathed when he played with human hands. Sansa had never had him so much as nibble and Tyrion had once asked her to show him his teeth to prove he had them. Unlike Nala, they only appeared when he played with his sister or Lady. For her part, the direwolf seemed as fond of the cubs as Sansa herself. It was Lady who repremanded the cubs when they were too rough and she who taught them the ways of the Rock. There was a joke about Starks and Lannisters there somewhere, but Sansa did not want to think too deeply on it.

“Aren’t you worried they will hurt Robert?”

Sansa smiled at Tyrion over her mug of honeyed milk, “Lady will not let Nala near him,” at her side, Cersei’s black-haired son slept soundly. Genna claimed that she had shocked the nobles of the Westerlands when she greeted the bastard boy upon his “arrival” at the Rock and lifted him from Ser Lucion’s arms herself. After she dubbed the boy Robert - for the king, she had said, but really because she knew it would wound Cersei - and he had become her daily companion.

The maesters were beside themselves with this Northern custom, and the rest of the nobles were still half-convinced that Sansa intended to throw the child out a window the moment she could. Jaime had dismissed all inquries into fostering the child, defering to her on the matter even to Cersei, who had begun to request that he be named a page for Ser Lancel and serve in King’s Landing when he was old enough. Tyrion had laughed when she said it, and mummered something that she had not heard, but which made Cersei bristle at him. Even Lord Tywin's most recent letter contained what she suspected was as much an apology as he had ever given anyone.

Of late, Sansa had taken to spending a few hours in the evening in Tyrion’s solar, discussing the happenings at the Rock. Lady Ysilla and little Larra Penrose seemed almost offended at being dismissed in favor of a dwarf, but Myrielle had encouraged it; not to mention that it gave Sansa a chance to trade information about the running of the Rock for information about it’s gold supplies.

“Probably for the best,” Tyrion noted. A decanter of wine sat untouched on the desk, as Sansa could not drink it and Tyrion claimed that it was rude to drink without her. She eased her weight to the other side of the chair, arranging her red skirts comfortably, and held out a hand to her cubs. Nala abandoned Tyrion to rush her mother, grabbed her hand in both forepaws and mouthed her wrist. Even so, she was far gentler with Sansa than she was with anyone else, “she is rather wild.”

“She is only a cub,” Sansa chided, “she will learn.” When the cub became too energetic, Lady reached over and picked her up. The cub’s entire head and neck fit easily in the direwolf’s mouth, and she dropped Nala gently on the floor next to her. The male cub lept away from them both and shook out his spotted pelt like any housecat might.

“Perhaps she will, at that,” he agreed as he considered the direwolf, “what do you mean to do about that?”

Sansa leaned forward with some effort to take the parchement back from his desk. She was too close to the birth for much movement, but she wanted to see the words again,  “what can I do? It would be rude to refuse. I fear we cannot afford to anger Dorne more.”

“It is rude to offer a bastard daughter in the place of a trueborn one,” Tyrion replied, “and there is the matter of finding one.”

“Genna suggested I send Leona Lydden,” a smile pulled at the corner of Sansa’s mouth that she could not quite hide, “Bastard or no, a daughter of the Prince of Dorne’s brother is a good trade for the daughter of Margot Lydden.”

“That does sound like Genna,” Tyrion agreed, “and Obella Sand is only a year younger than you, suitable for a lady-in-waiting.”

“I thought so too,” Sansa admitted. When she had questioned Genna she had said that the girl was said to be timid and sweet, unlike her older sisters. A knock at the door interruped anything more she might say, and before Tyrion could answer it the door opened to reveal Jaime. Sansa’s face went blank and Jaime could not quite look at her, but he strode across the floor nevertheless to stand before her.

“A letter came for you,” he said, holding out a bit of parchement rolled tightly, “it bears the Stark seal.”

Sansa took it without a word, turned it over to look at the seal - a wolf impressed upon white wax, the seal of the Lord of Winterfell - and gently pulled it open.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Jaime said as he looked to Tyrion, “it was brought straight to me and I thought I might find her here.”

“You could never interrupt,” Tyrion waved him off, “as you are always-”

In a sudden, jolting movement, Sansa bolted to her feet. Her hands trembled as she read the letter. Lady had stopped playing with the cub to approach her master’s side; she nudged Sansa’s hands with her nose and whined loudly. Confused, the female cub rolled to her belly and sniffed after the direwolf. Her brother stood on his hind legs, braced one foreleg against Sansa’s skirts, and reached up with the other, trying to pull her hand down. She read the words again.

_My dearest Sansa,_

_I fear I must deliver more ill news. Your brother Robb is dead._

_Maester Medrick says there was enough of the strangler in his wine to kill ten men. He died within moments of drinking it, there was nothing we could do save seek his killer. His wife, Lady Jeyne, is beside herself with grief, but she carries a babe in her belly. Pray to the gods that she delivers a son. I will send more news as I have it. Your mother,_

_Catelyn Stark_

Tyrion was calling her name. She looked up, dimly aware that her hands were shaking, “he’s dead,” she gasped out. She had not tried to say the words, yet she heard them, “Robb’s dead.”

Tyrion pushed himself from his chair and waddled across the floor to reach her, “here,” he bid, “let me see.”

Sansa tried to let go of the paper, but her grip did not loosen. Her arms felt like wood. Was this to be the fate of her entire family? Murdered one by one by their enemies? She could hear herself talk but she could not feel her lips, “Bran and Rickon and now Robb. Not him too, not all of them. No. No. It can’t be true. It can’t.”

Jaime reached for her, but Sansa stumbled back and fell. Only the direwolf saved her from the fall, Sansa’s hand wrapped into the thick fur on instinct and Lady used her body to ease Sansa’s way to the floor, her fur warm against Sansa’s back. She was not holding the paper anymore. Of her body’s own accord, she wailed, burying her face in her hands. Her body convulsed with grief and a sudden, sharp pain made itself known through the numbness. Horrified, she lifted her head with a gasp, hands falling to her swollen stomach, “the babe,” she gasped, tears streaming freely down her face as she reached for her husband, “Jaime!”

“Fetch the maester to her rooms,” she heard Tyrion command as he took Sansa’s hands in his, “and send someone to Myrielle so she can get the babe.”

Jaime remained frozen to the spot and after a moment Tyrion shouted, “Jaime! Now!”

She did not hear him leave, but he was gone and Tyrion was shaking her, “Sansa, can you stand?”

“My brother, my brother is dead,” his warm hands closed over hers and his face was close enough that she watched him frown. Someone was wailing, “Bran and Rickon and Robb, all dead!”

“Sansa!” Tyrion gripped her face in his hands and lifted her chin, “listen to me. You cannot do anything for Robb, but you can still save your son. Do you want him to die as well?” She had no answer for that. A soft cloth touched her face and Tyrion caught her hands in his again, “stand up, Sansa. You are a wolf of Winterfell and wolves are not weak! Stand!”

Between his weight and her strength, she found her feet. How she did not know, but once she was there she could feel Lady against her legs. She tore one of her hands from Tyrion’s to bury it in the direwolf’s fur. Was Grey Wind dead as well? A direwolf would not do well without it’s master, she could not imagine Lady without her. Would he be able to bond with Robb’s babe?

She could hear Tyrion’s voice again, but it sounded as though he was a great distance away. Yet how could he be? His hand was wrapped in hers, pulling her along. Or was that Lady? No, the direwolf was on her other side, her fur blisteringly warm against Sansa’s hand. A new wave of pain rolled through her mid-section, bringing her back to the corridor they stood in. Tyrion paused as she winced, waited until she had managed to straighten before he tugged at her again.

“Sansa, come on, the maester will be here soon,” he said, and she followed him obediently. If Robb was dead did that make her the Lady of Winterfell? No, her mother had said that his wife was pregnant. If she carried that child to term Winterfell would belong to him. As they came to the end of the corridor, Tyrion shouted and the clank of armor announced a knight. He lifted her as though she weighted nothing, and Sansa faltered as Lady’s fur was pulled away.

A door was thrown open and Genna’s face filled her vision. Her voice was calmer than Tyrion’s, but just as frantic. They laid her on a hard surface and stripped her dress from her, and sweet Roslin Frey - Roslin Rosby? - Roslin Frey draped a warm blanket over her. Sansa was grateful for the heat, but her hands could not find Lady. The pains were coming quicker now, but she could make out the voice of Maester Creylen amid the chaos.

Someone was shouting.

The next time Genna’s face swam into view, she reached out for her, “Jaime,” she heard herself say, “I want Jaime. Where is Jaime?”

Someone was screaming.

Joffrey was there, hitting her, hurting her. _That’s what I’ll give you_ , he shouted as pain curled through her stomach, _your brother’s head!_ She was as naked as she had been the night he killed her son, her dress hanging from her in strips, more a rag than a gown. Sansa wrapped her body around her stomach - flat, too flat, why was that? - and he kicked her an she closed her eyes.

As if in answer, there was a horrific tearing sound and from the darkness around her came a deep growl. When she looked again Joffrey and his men were gone, replaced by two burning eyes which watched her from the dark. Some primal instinct inside her screamed, but she was unafraid. The eyes blinked and a great roar filled the air.

When Sansa woke someone was screaming. She tried to sit up, but hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.

_“That’s what I’ll give you, your brother’s head!”_

She was walking down a long hall beneath the walls of Winterfell. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. Far ahead, there was a door, tiny with distance, but even from afar she could see the white wolf emblazoned on it. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints in the snow.

“Home,” she whispered at the sight of it.

_“That’s what I’ll give you, your brother’s head!”_

She saw sunlight cast out over the fields to the east of the Rock, the plain rich with the scent of earth and death. Wind stirred the grasses and they rippled like water. The roar of a lion sounded from the castle behind her and a great shadow came over them. She looked up and saw that the stars smiled down on her, stars in a daylight sky.

When she looked down again, the fields were frozen over with snow.

_“I’ll give you your brother’s head!”_

Her father’s face was somber and sorrowful, “sweet one,” he said, “listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake.” Sansa tried to scream for him, to warn him, but no words came out. She reached for her father. One moment he was there and the next he was fading, his flesh colorless, less substantial than the wind. “A terrible mistake,” he whispered, thin as a wisp, and was gone.

Sansa felt the dark behind her, and her father’s door seemed father away than ever.

_“I’ll give you your brother’s head!”_

Joffrey stood before her, screaming. “Ser Ilyn, bring me his head! I am the king! I am your king!” As he stood there she heard a terrible noise, the sound of skin on steel, and bright, bare steel gleamed at the king’s throat. It dripped his blood, and then it was a torrent, down the front of his tunic and straight to the floor.

“I am your king!” he shouted, although his throat was a ruin, and he kicked out at her even as his head twisted back and he fell.

_“Give you your brother’s head!”_

The door to her father’s rooms was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness.

She began to run.

_“Give you your brother’s head!”_

Sansa could feel the cold inside her, a terrible cold that traveled throughout her entire body, from her womb to her head and the toes of her feet. Her son was tall and proud, with her red hair and Jaime’s green eyes. He smiled at the sight of her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth he roared like a lion. When he lifted his sword, Valyrian steel with a roaring lion on it’s hilt, thousands of men poured over the hills behind him.

“Casterly Rock,” they shouted, all together and at once, “For Lord Jerion! For the queen!”

_“...your brother’s head...”_

Ghosts lined the hallways of Casterly Rock, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade, and one, only one, with eyes of bright emerald. Jaime’s eyes. “Faster,” they cried, “faster, faster.” She raced, her feet freezing the stone where ever they touched. “Faster!” the ghosts cried as one, and she screamed and threw herself toward her father’s door. A wolf was there, a wolf of white. It was not the sigil on the door, but Ghost, and when his eyes met hers, Sansa fell forward but did not stop.

The door loomed before her, her father’s arms gleaming white against the wood, so close, so close, and the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and her paws flew over the snow, faster and faster, and all that lived and breathed fled before her. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond father’s door, bright fires and great stone walls and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door.

_“...brother’s head...”_

And saw her brother Bran, mounted on a great dragon. Fire glimmered red through it’s throat and in the narrow eye slit of Bran’s helm she could see his eyes, gray and cold and dead. Her father’s voice whispered on the wind, “a terrible mistake."

“Bran!” her voice screamed, but her lips had not moved. The helm turned to look at her, and his eyes brightened, at once Tully blue and full of life. He stared at her as though it was she who was back from the dead and not him.

After that, for a long time, there was only the pain, the cold within her, and the whisperings of the stars.

She woke, and could still smell the scent of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Sansa chapter? At least those lion cubs are doing well, and Cersei's son.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments! I feel bad for poor Aegon, not one person is convinced that he's actually Rhaegar's son. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Jeyne (because I'm anti-cliffhanger)


	54. Lady Stark IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

2/18/301

Catelyn had gone.

She did not know where. One by one, all the lords and ladies within Winterfell’s walls had come to see the Young Wolf. They had offered many sweet words and false promises, offers of loyalty and of marriage and of war, but one by one they left until only Jeyne and Grey Wind remained. The direwolf lay his head on Robb’s leg and Jeyne sat in the chair beside his bed and stared sightlessly at her beloved.

Jeyne wore a dress of the finest wool the North had to offer. It was dyed the cool cream belonging to House Westerling and lined with pink Myrish lace. Arya had sewn it for her, and although Jeyne had been forced to re-do some of her needlework, by and large it was exquisite. She had worn it to the feast last night, had danced with Robb and laughed as her skirts twisted around his legs, had admired the color as she stood with her goblet in hand to toast the babe forming in her belly. Her throat felt like she had eaten cotton. Her head was a mess of thoughts but none made sense to her.

Eleyna had come first, her sweet sister. Shaking, she had set honeyed milk and little biscuits on the table, sat with Jeyne for a minute or an hour before quietly taking her leave. Jeyne knew she wanted to help, and her presence did despite her fear, but she was too numb to thank her for it. The sisters had not even looked each other in the face, Jeyne had stared at Robb and Eleyna had stared at the floor and there they sat in absolute silence.

Beth was next. She brought with her Snow, who hummed quietly as she rocked him. The Northern girl stole one of Jeyne’s biscuits and nibbled on it in the side of her vision, held the babe until it fell asleep, and bowed to Robb before she left. It had been she who said it first. _The King in the North._ And then she had been gone, her boots louder on the floors than her sister’s slippers, the babe in her arms gurgling happily. At five months, Jeyne’s belly had not yet begun to swell. She had not dared name the babe.

Lyra tried as well. Her boots were lined with iron, her armor clanking even when she tried to be quiet and she was not now. She kissed Robb’s purple face and gently fixed the askew Stark banner draped over his lifeless body. Then she drew her sword and knelt. _The King in the North_. Jeyne did not know if she meant Robb or the babe in her belly. When she made no reply, Lyra sat on the floor before her, bare steel balanced over her knees, and sat in silence with her, ladies in their armor.

Lady Mormont came, and with her Catelyn, dressed in a black mourning dress with a blue strip at the bottom. Maege settled Robb’s mother in a chair, her eyes red with crying, and came to touch Robb’s auburn hair. She brushed it back from his face and lifted a crown in her hands. Robb’s crown, bronze incised with runes, nine iron spikes in the shape of longswords. A crown for a king. _The King in the North._ Under Catelyn’s watchful eye Maege set it on his head and stepped away. She kissed Jeyne’s cheek. _I will pray the gods grant you a son._ So said the woman with five daughters.

Barbrey Dustin entered after the Smalljon and the Wull’s son had left. She stood next to Robb’s body and looked down on him, her face as sad and solemn as the black mourning dress she wore. _The King in the North._ Rickard looked away from Robb and to his aunt, but she said nothing more. Instead she came to Jeyne and knelt before her. Jeyne made no protest when the woman touched her barely-swollen belly. _Come away and sleep, think of the babe._ Jeyne shook her head slowly but said nothing, and eventually the woman left as the others had.

Brienne of Tarth entered after all the men had gone. She stopped before Robb to look at his crown, a Stormlands girl playing a Northern knight. _I am sorry, my lady_ . Jeyne did not know if she spoke to her or to Catelyn. The knight strode across the floor to speak in low tones to Catelyn. Jeyne caught the word _Sansa_ and nothing else. After many minutes, her good-mother rose, her arm wrapped in the maid-knight’s, and left her son alone.

It was many hours before Jeyne roused herself. From the darkness outside, she knew it was the hour of the owl, “Lyra,” she heard herself say, “fetch me parchment and a quill.” The message was brief and sloppy. It hurt her to write, made some part of her soul curl in on itself as if putting words to paper made it real, but she knew that it was what Robb would have wanted done.

_The Young Wolf is dead. The poisoner is unknown. The babe I carry grants me power, but for how long I do not know. Beware. If a prince is born, I will send word ~ Your Lady Stark_

She wrapped it tightly and bound it with a pink ribbon from her hand and pressed it into Lyra’s hand, “take this to the maester. Have it sent to Stannis. See it off before you return to me.”

“On my honor,” she swore, and was gone.

Jeyne stood on shaking feet and went to Robb. She could not look at his face without weeping, but she let the tears stream down her face as she touched his cold hands. Only hours ago he would have woken and kissed her. Her son would never know his father. If she bore a daughter, she may never know Winterfell. The life inside her was all she had left of him, and if it died as well she could not bear it. She wanted to go to the godswood. She wanted to stay with Robb.

Because she did not know what to do, she cried into his Stark-gray tunic.

It was then that the door opened. Her mother was dressed in the bright green and gold of House Spicer, a dress she had not been wearing at the feast. Sybell crossed the floor with quick steps and gripped Jeyne’s arm firmly, “stop crying! You are a Westerling, act like one!” her voice was stern but soft. What duties were there to do when Robb was dead?

“Leave me,” Jeyne commanded, “let me mourn my husband.”

“There is no time for that,” her mother answered, “we must be away.”

“Away? Mother, what are you talking about? I belong here, this is my home,” she looked down at the lifeless body of her husband. Robb had been her home, and a castle was a poor replacement. Nonetheless, it was hers.

“Your home? This frozen, dreary castle? No. You belong in the Westerlands with me and your father. Have you forgotten him already? And your brother too?”

“I am the Lady of Winterfell,” Jeyne pulled away from her, “we bartered for their safety.”

“What is safety? They’ve given them a room and guards, what life is that?” Sybell hissed, “there is word that Tywin means to give the Crag to his nephew Daven and his Redwyne wife. He took my family’s holdings and gave them to his brother. What justice is that?”

“Mother, you cannot be serious,” if it was a joke did that make it more cruel, or less? Jeyne did not know, “you would use Robb’s death to your gain?”

“ _Our_ gain, Jeyne,” was this woman her mother? Had she always been thus and Jeyne was blind, or was it fear for her husband and son that caused her to act so? She had not even worn black for Robb’s sake, “that babe in your belly can buy our lands back. I’ve arranged it all. Come, we ride for the Neck.”

Jeyne tore herself from her mother’s grip, “what are you saying? Mother, what did you do?”

“Only what you were too afraid too. Why do you think I warned you so often about wine harming the babe, Jeyne? Because I love wolfspawn? I killed one and I will kill another if it comes to that. No, I did not want to lose my daughter along with her fool of a husband.”

No. No she couldn’t have; she wouldn’t have. Sybell was a stern woman, but she was not cruel. She would not have, never. Robb was good to her. He gave her a place at his table and paid the ransom for her family. When he dishonored her daughter he married her. Yet Jeyne knew, she knew, with a deep certainty that she could not make herself acknowledge. Knew like she had known she was pregnant that night some five months ago.

On the bed beside Robb, Grey Wind lifted his head.

“You did this? How could you?”  A cold, still calm had settled over Jeyne.

“You are being a fool,” her mother snapped, “now come. Let me take this crown and we’ll be off.”

Instinct took over when her mother moved toward Robb, she moved so her body was between her mother and her husband’s body, “you will not touch him.”

Sybell slapped her. Hard.

Jeyne staggered with the hit. Her face would be red in the morning, but she did not care. She shifted to protect her belly and straightened like a Westerling would, like a _Stark_. Like fierce little Arya and proud, brave Rob. When she looked back to her mother’s face, she registered the disappointed frown. In years past she would have been overcome with guilt. She felt like her heart had frozen over, a cold in her chest that would never warm.

“Guards!” she sang, as loudly as she could. Her mother jerked back as if she had been the one struck and turned to the door. Jeyne wrapped her arms around her near-flat stomach and her words echoed off the walls, “Lyra, Brienne, Hallis! To me! To arms! Winterfell, Winterfell! We are betrayed!”

Her mother knew she could not escape. Instead she turned back, lifted her hand to strike Jeyne, but she had not counted on the direwolf. In an instant, Grey Wind was between them. He caught the hand that Sybell had raised in his massive jaws and tore back and forth, shaking Sybell was though she were a ragdoll. Sybell screamed, her hand would be ribbons when he was done, but Jeyne did not move to stop him. She was shaking all over, but she did not stop screaming until the door was flung open.

Hallis forced his was inside and was faced with a direwolf mauling his lady’s mother. He lifted his sword, faltering and brave, but Jeyne cried out, “she killed Robb! Poisoned his wine! Murderer, murderer! Seize her!”

He faltered, and in that moment Arya shoved past him. Dressed in her gown of blue she darted into the fray and Grey Wind let go. As the great direwolf backed up, Arya thrust her sword forward and down, piercing Sybell’s shoulder and as the blood welled up Jeyne cried out, “no!”

“What is the meaning of this!” Catelyn was held back by Hallis, who was putting her safety at risk of his own, but still struggled, “Arya! What are you doing? Put down your sword, does guest right mean nothing to you?”

“She killed Robb!” Arya sobbed. The girl must have been listening at the door, Jeyne realized suddenly. Wild little Arya had wanted to see her brother again and when she had heard Sybell she had run for her sword, “what is guest right if she breaks it first?”

Arya pulled her sword back and made to drive it down, but Grey Wind rushed Arya, wrapped his mouth around her arm and dragged her back. When he released her at Jeyne’s feet the girl was remarkable unharmed, the teeth that tore Sybell to shreds had left no mark on Arya. Jeyne caught her arm tightly and drew her close, Arya was crying.

“Arrest her!” she commanded as her mother sobbed on the ground. A stunned Catelyn stared at the scene before her, but Jeyne waved in the guards. Maege Mormont was through the door first and she fell upon Sybell like a woman possessed, “she murdered your king! She murdered his son!”

Sybell was dragged from the floor. Her right hand was now shreds of flesh and broken bone, her left shoulder bleeding freely, but Jeyne had no sympathy left for her. She had used that on her fatherless babe and her dead husband. As they pulled her upright, Jeyne looked her mother in her eyes. Would her son have had those eyes? The unborn babe that was murdered by his grandmother, a babe who should have been Robb’s heir, an Eddard of Winterfell. Those were Spicer eyes, gleaming with dark knowledge. She had known her mother could brew poisons, but had never suspected her.

“You betrayed us,” her mother - no, this woman was not the Sybell Spicer she had known - spat, “for what? A castle and a boy lord.”

“For me,” Jeyne answered, “I was happy here. Arrangements were being made to bring all of our family North. I carried his son. You betrayed me, mother, this is not my fault.”

“Kill her now,” Arya snarled, “she admitted it, you heard her.”

“Yes,” Jeyne’s voice was distant even to herself, “but she must stand trial.”

“We know she did it, she’s a kinslayer.”

“She murdered my husband and my son. She would have killed this babe too if she could have,” the cold had seeped from her heart into her skin and Jeyne was shivering, “I will see her pay for her crimes properly.”

“By what right do you judge me?" Sybell demanded, "Would you not have done the same if it was Robb and your babes at risk?” she twisted in the guard’s grip to see Catelyn, “or you if it were Eddard and Robb? What gives you the right?”

"Why not just kill her now and be done with it?" Arya snarled. One of her hands was buried in Grey Wind's fur, the other, clenched on her sword hilt.

“Justice,” Jeyne said. _The King in the North._ She felt very far away as she looked at her mother, “that’s what kings are for. I will not sully Robb's name by killing her without a trial."

 

_The usurper, Robb Stark._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another Winterfell chapter. I know that some of you were hoping for an ice queen Sansa, but she is too clever for that. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar in the south. Look for Sybell's fate in Cat's next chapter.
> 
> You guys are awesome commentors. A few of you managed to give really good analysis of the fever dreams Sansa had, and others gave a nice insight into the little details that I work really hard to include. I love all of you :). I also appreciate the comments on Aegon, it's nice to know he has some support. 
> 
> I know some of you will ask, but yes, it's possible to not show very much at five months. Some women barely show through their entire pregnancy. Jeyne just happens to be one of them. This doesn't help their situation much, but at least she doesn't need to sew new dresses.
> 
> Next chapter: Mystery POV


	55. Princess of Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can a man still be brave when he's afraid?

She had dreamed of men made of ice.

That was why, when cold hands shook her, she lashed out, landing a blow on the body of her attacker before the sleep faded and she could make out the face of the man above her. Davos wore a grimace as he prodded his ribs with one hand. In the darkness of the castle she could barely see him. When he noticed her staring at him, he forced a laugh, “Princess, I did not know you had been training with the knights.”

“You startled me, Davos,” Shireen said, still confused, “I was dreaming. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Davos answered, “but it was a near thing. My ribs will ache for days, but nothing is broken.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Your father sent me,” he paused, considered her cautiously, and continued, “news arrived not an hour ago that Robb Stark is dead. We must be away.”

“Dead?” she lept from the bed and fished the heaviest dress she owned from her trunk, pulling it on over the kirtle she had worn to sleep in an effort to ward off the cold. It was awkward to lace it herself, but it would be more awkward to die for the sake of a dress, “who killed him?”

Davos had turned to face the room’s entrance in an effort to give her some semblance of privacy, “that, we do not know. The letter was signed by his lady wife. Her unborn babe makes her Lady Regent, but your father fears…”

“If I am to flee in the middle of the night, I would know why,” Shireen said. She tore two dresses, three, from the trunk and bundled them into a thin blanket. The dull gold one was lined with wool and would do well if she fell into water or wet snow during their flight. The others were of Myrish lace; they would suit any Essosi court. In with them she added underclothes, a pair of kirtles, a chemise, and a pair of doeskin slippers, before binding it tightly in leather that would ward off the rain.

“I do not wish to speak ill of allies,” Davos answered her, his voice soft in the gloom, “but Lady Jeyne is a Westerling of the Westerlands. It may be that the Northerners will not like being led by a southron lady.”

Shireen pulled her riding boots from under her bed. Her mother hated them, but her father had ordered them made specifically for her, for the long ride north. Made of soft leather, they rose to her knees, and Shireen could not have made the journey without them. She secured them about her legs and gave Davos her bundle.

He gripped her hand in his to guide her through the halls of Greenguard, not even daring to light a candle on their early-morning flight. Even the torches on the walls were dim, and as they came to the doors of the servant’s entrance she could see that dawn was not yet upon them. In the dim light before the arrival of the sun she could make out Lady Melisandre’s red hair beside her father’s warhorse, while a man bearing the Baratheon sigil saddled it.

“Stannis, I beg of you,” she said as Davos and Shireen approached, “do not do this. I have seen your victory in the flames.”

“As have I,” her father agreed. Davos let go of her as they neared him, but Shireen walked straight into Stannis’ arms. He hugged her tightly and pressed a kiss to her head, then took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. As he did she could see that Davos had fastened her bundle to the back of the her father’s destrier, “Shireen, listen to me. You must go to Braavos and await word there. If these Northernmen decide to turn their cloaks, you must be safe.”

Shireen looked up at the great black horse and was afraid. He was her father’s most prized possession, a horse bred for battle, and although few of his breeding were actually used for it her father thought it foolish to be so proud of a warhorse as to not use it for war. If her father meant to send her away with him, he thought that he might lose this war. She closed her eyes tightly - she must not cry, she was a Baratheon, her father’s daughter, and she could not let him know that she was afraid - and when she looked back into her father’s face she knew he feared for her, “I will go. If you should die here, I will avenge you. I swear it.”

Her father kissed her again, then he gripped her waist and lifted her up onto his stallion’s back. He was taller than any horse she had ever ridden, but the height gave her courage. While Stannis adjusted her stirrup length, Davos came close. He held his own reins in one hand as he gripped her father’s arm with the other, “my king, allow me to take Edric Storm as well. He is only a boy.”

Lady Melisandre caught Stannis’ other arm and pulled herself close to him, “it is unwise to send either of them away. They may be needed here.”

“Enough, both of you,” her father shook them off and turned on his priestess, “Shireen will go to Braavos,” then he turned on Davos, “and Edric Storm will remain with me. I will book no further argument.”

Davos nodded, “as you say,” and mounted his horse. 

Lady Melisandre frowned, “Stannis-”

“I will hear no more of this,” her father said as he finished adjusting the leather strap, “if you speak of it again, I will send Edric with Shireen.”

“No,” the priestess said, “send the princess if you must, but the boy at least must stay.” She pulled her red robes around her and turned to retreat into the castle. Shireen could see her mother in the crowd, but when Lady Melisandre passed her, she turned and followed. 

Her father took the great stallion’s reins and stepped to his other side, to adjust that stirrup as well. When he had lifted the saddle flap, he paused, slid his hand inside his cloak, and pulled out a dagger. The hilt was carved in the shape of a stag’s antlers and the blade was sheathed carefully, but Shireen knew Valyrian steel when she saw it. She took the blade from him and hid it in her skirts, “take care of that,” her father said, softly, “it belonged to Orys Baratheon.”

The steel was cold against her skin where she had tucked it into her boot, but that was not the cause of the chill down her back, “will I ever see you again?”

“You may,” he answered. He gave the stirrup a tug to insure the leather was straight and set the flap down. While she arranged her foot, he reached inside his cloak again and fumbled. This time he held a letter, small enough to be tied around a raven’s foot, bearing the seal of the Lord of Winterfell, “and you may not. Take this. It was meant to give our sellswords safe passage across Skagos, but it will serve you better than them. Sail to the island this night. Find their ship at Driftwood Hall, trade it for your men’s horses, and head to Braavos.”

He stepped back and helped her to collect the reins. As Davos rode near, accompanied by one of the few Stark men in their company, a man bearing the sigil of House Locke, he said in a loud voice, “in Braavos, you may hear that I am dead. It may even be true. Nevertheless, you are to buy my sellswords and seat my daughter on the Iron Throne.”

“Or die trying,” Davos swore. When he looked to Shireen she had to look away, least she begin to cry, “I will give my life for hers if I must.”

“Go,” her father commanded her, “get to Braavos by any means you must.”

Shireen reined the stallion around and put her heels to him. The Stark man had a little bay rounsey with a surprisingly quick canter, and he led them out of the courtyard. Well, a quick canter for Davos’ courser and most of the horses ridden by her escort of eighteen men. Her father’s stallion was nearly trotting at this pace.  

Davos drew his bay up beside her. He was taller than she, but here she was head and shoulders above him, “if we push the horses, we can make Eastwatch by nightfall. We can camp there and purchase a ship on the morrow.”

“No,” Shireen answered, “there are fishermen along the coast, are there not?”

“There are, princess.”

“Men who have lived there for their entire lives,” men who could make the treacherous crossing to Skagos in the night. She could feel the letter in her dress as it prickled against her skin, reminded her of her duty to her father, “we must find one to take us to Skagos.”

“Skagos?” the Stark man had slowed a bit to ride alongside them. Shireen gently nudged her stallion until they were going the same speed as before, “I would not support going to Skagos, my lady. The isle is nothing but raiders and wildlings, cannibals and savages, No, best to hire a sea-faring ship and head straight to Braavos.”

“It does not matter what you would support,” Shireen retorted. She had no wish to go to Skagos either, even in the Stormlands they heard the tales of the island, but if that was where their ships lay, that was where they must go. Why her father had sent sellswords to Skagos was an entirely different question. The isle belonged to Winterfell, but in truth it ruled itself. What had her father and the Young Wolf been planning? “my father ordered us to go to Skagos, and so there we shall go. And I am not your ‘lady.’ I am the Princess Shireen, heir to the Iron Throne.”

“You would do well to remember it,” Davos added. If she hadn’t been so frightened, Shireen might have laughed. She had never been left in command of a party of men before; her hands shook on the reins and the stallion beneath her felt her fear and jostled her as he shook his great head. He was a fiery creature, as likely to trample his rider as the enemy, but her father had trusted her with him. 

Perhaps, she thought, some eight hours later, her father had entrusted her to the stallion. The rest of the horses were tired and failing. One of two of the men were so far back that if it were not for the arms on their armor, Shireen might have thought they were not part of her men at all. Davos struggled to keep his courser beside her, slowly falling back until his horse’s head was level with her stallion’s flanks, and then urging him back up to trot beside her. The little bay the Stark man rode had fallen back as well, to her other side, but that did not matter so much now that she could see the coastline. Although he had long since stopped pulling on the reins, the stallion beneath her felt as though he could go another few hours before tiring as the others had. 

They made camp under the rocky ledges near the fort while a few men, the Locke man, and one or two who were not bearing the crest of the Stormlands, ventured into town. While Davos went among the men to ensure they all covered their sigils, Shireen swept her hair up and back, and pinned it tightly before she pulled her cloak up. She should cut her hair, but if it could be avoided it would be a boon in the courts of Braavos.

When their scouts returned, Davos made them all dismount. He stole the stallion from her and gave it to the Locke man, then pressed her between himself and another old knight from the Stormlands, with all the men her father sent around them. In this way they came down to the sea, clustered in one big bunch with the horses behind. The ship that the Locke man had chartered belonged to the Umbers. It was large enough to hold all of their horses, but if the men should see so much as the gleam of a sigil on the men’s clothes, so much as a wrongly color shield, if it was an Umber that killed Robb Stark… She kept her head down and stayed hidden in the wall of bodies, trusting that Davos had done his work well. 

Although the trip went smoothly, by the time the last of the men had left the longship, some ten Skagosi had gathered on the exit from the beach to watch them. As the last few men came off the ship, they finally came forward and Davos went to meet them, “what‘r you doing on our island?” the largest of their group asked, a man with a long knife and a beard as long as Shireen’s hair. In the darkness his companions fanned out behind him.

“We make for Driftwood Hall,” as Davos spoke, the Stark man gathered a group of men in preperation for a battle. Shireen climbed back onto her stallion and arranged her skirts carefully, withdrawing the paper from where she had hidden it, “we want no trouble. Let us camp on the beach tonight and tomorrow we will be gone.”

They chattered among themselves in a language that Shireen did not know. If she had to guess, she would hazard that it was the Old Tongue of the First Men, “this beach belongs to our tribe, not to the Stane,” their spokesman said at last, “best you move on now.”

Shireen knew that trick. First it was the beach that belonged to them, then the woods and the rivers and the moutains. She put her heels to her stallion and rode forward, “this beach does not belong to you,” she said, careful to keep the fear from her voice. Davos stiffened and the men became nervous to mount and find their weapons, but Shireen looked down on the Skagosi and frowned, “it belongs to Lord Robb Stark in Winterfell.”

The man paused, “so it does. What is it to you?”

“We carry a message from him,” she lifted up the little paper with the white wolf seal so they could see it, “and on his behalf it must reach Driftwood Hall. If you trouble us, we will go back to Winterfell and return with two hundred men to hunt the woods and fish the rivers and burn the lands as we go. If you kill us, Robb Stark will send five hundred men to search for us and spend many weeks in your lands. Let us stay one night and on the morrow we will be gone. What say you?”

Against her skin the black dagger was cold again, freed to the frozen night air as she readied herself to grasp the hilt. The Skagosi man looked back to her nineteen horsemen, then to Davos, then to her. He turned and spoke to his group in the same tongue as before. She believed in the gods no more than her father did, but what harm could a prayer to the Mother do? Though, on this island, it would be more fitting to pray to a tree. After some argument, the Skagosi man turned back to them.

“Longships and wolves and more Stark men. We liked it better when Lord Eddard ruled Winterfell,” he said sourely, “you tell your Lord Robb that. Our lands have too many Stark men now, they can’t support five hundred more! He can keep his longships off our island!”

The Skagosi turned and headed for the woods, and Davos came to look up at the little paper, “it seems you’ve bought us safe passage, princess.”

“We only need one night,” she tucked the paper back into her dress, “what did he mean, Davos? About the Stark men? Father told me nothing about any forces on this island except the ship at Driftwood Hall.”

“None of our men are on this island,” Davos shook his head, “perhaps Lord Robb’s men are here, though - Lady Jeyne’s men, I suppose. If we come across them, keep your head down and let us do the talking. No one can know you are not with your father.”

They made camp there, up the beach from where they had landed. The men tied off their horses and ate what rations they had. No fires were lit that cold night, and few tents were constructed. Even Davos slept among the others, giving Shireen his spare blanket. Yet it was not the cold that kept the men awake that night.

It was the howling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this week's mystery POV :). 
> 
> Thanks for the comments! I did like a few of you mourning Robb for Arya's sake. I've got the next chapter mostly finished but I've been working on act 1 of the sequel (Realms of Men, Magical, Afterwards) so I might release it a little late :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Tywin (feat. Margaery)


	56. Old Lion VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explain to me why it is more noble to kill ten thousand men in a battle than one at a wedding?

2/25/301

If Tywin had to write one more letter to Cersei he was going to summon her back to King’s Landing himself.

Which, of course, would only exacerbate his problems with Joffrey. It would, however, greatly reduce the likelihood of his newest grandson dying. Jaime and Tyrion described the child as healthy and strong, listing his red hair and baby blue eyes. His elder son had claimed that Cersei adored the boy, while Tyrion accused Cersei of intentionally attempting to upset Jaime’s wife by kidnapping her son. He had written some long list of reasons the maester claimed that this could upset the child’s health, none of which Tywin needed to see to know that it was unwise to allow Cersei anywhere near her nephew unsupervised. She had always been jealous and possessive of Jaime, an ill combination when one considered her history of murdering children.

Lady Sansa’s letter carried a different message. His heir, she said, had been born weighing three kilograms, with a shock of Tully red hair and eyes which promised to be green. They named him Jerion, for his father and his uncle. She meant for the boy to be a page to House Lefford or House Marbrand, and, although both were rather close to the Riverlands, she was correct in her estimations of suitable houses. Strangely, she also asked his permission to send Leona Lydden to foster in Sunspear. Lady Sansa offered no explanation as to why Doran Martell would willingly send his brother’s beloved daughter - bastard or no - to Casterly Rock, but Tywin hardly saw a problem with the trade. She also gave no mention of Cersei’s behavior, which he found odd for a new mother with her history.

Eventually, Tywin would need her good will to arrange the marriage - or lordship - of her second son, and so he dutifully replied to every missive. He had not yet told her that if Jeyne Westerling bore a daughter that Lady Sansa’s second son would be wed to her, and he never intended to tell her that if the Westerling girl bore a son the babe would be quietly killed. Better to wait and see what unfolded. If it had been he who was present at Winterfell he would have waited to kill Robb Stark until the babe was born, but he suspected that the Spicer woman wanted insurance that he would do as he said. What better insurance than the Young Wolf’s babe?

After Lady Sansa’s information on the newborn and her report on the workings of Casterly Rock - which managed to include more information on mining than either of his son’s letters - she asked that he give her regards to Lady Stokeworth. Doing so would mean interacting with Lady Stokeworth again, but perhaps a raven could be sent. A raven that could not fly back to the Red Keep. The woman had wailed for a fortnight in court, until he was tempted to let Joffrey deal with her. Her daughter’s death was no great loss to anyone save her and there was no one left to punish. According to all accounts, her daughter had become frightened when she went into labor and tried to strangle her mid-wife, who defended herself with a knife. If the midwife had been alive he would have thought she wanted the woman to be put to death, but she had died along with Lollys and the bastard.

The only person in the room during Lollys’ outburst had been Cersei who had, of course, run for the guards. By the time they had returned it had been too late. It had not escaped Tywin’s notice that Cersei had not sent so much as an acknowledgement of the Stokeworth girl’s death despite being in the room when she died, while Sansa offered an olive branch to a lady of Joffrey’s court. If his trueborn daughter had been half so diplomatic there might not have been a war in the first place.

It was during these thoughts - and a half penned letter to his daughter - that one of his guards knocked on the door, “Queen Margaery, my lord!”

“See her in,” he set the parchment in his desk’s drawer and closed it as the door opened. The queen was dressed in a gown of soft peach and a sweet smile, and in her hands she carried flowers of red and gold neatly arranged in a vase with a bow tied on it. She set it on his desk and smiled brightly at him over the bright petals.

“What’s this?”

“Roses,” she turned the vase so the bow was facing him, “to celebrate Lord Jaime’s son by Sansa!”

“Lady Sansa is not here,” Tywin had no response to being brought flowers. Even the Mad King had given him gold instead of greenery, “she is at Casterly Rock.”

The little queen frowned at him, “the flowers are not for her, they are for you.”

Tywin took a moment to evaluate his position in King’s Landing relative to Queen Margaery’s. On one hand, he was the Hand of the King and his de facto regent, and had a small standing army in King’s Landing.. On the other hand, she was his wife and had given birth to his three month old heir, and her father was a short way from the city with a large army. He leaned back slowly in his seat, “you brought me flowers.”

“Your son has a son,” she replied with the brightest smile he had seen from her in many days, “is that not a cause to celebrate?”

“With flowers?”

“They are dead,” she laughed, “just have the maid throw them out when they begin to wilt and keep the vase.”

It took him a moment to remember the last time he had had flowers on his desk. They had belonged to Joanna and had been set there while she argued with him about whether or not she was staying in the Red Keep while she was in King’s Landing around a year before Jaime and Cersei’s birth. Once the argument was over - she was, apparently - Joanna had collected her flowers and gone to find Princess Lorenza, whom the orange flowers had been intended for.

“Did you only come to bring me flowers?” Perhaps they were a ruse and he could throw them out once she had gone. What kind of person would think the queen bringing him flowers was a normal day? He thought of Joffrey and forced himself to stop thinking about the flowers.

While he had been debating himself on the subject of flowers, Queen Margaery had settled herself in one of his chairs, “only partially. Your solar is very drab, Lord Tywin, you need some color and I thought you might enjoy the Lannister ones. The scouts say my family are some three days from the city. When will Lady Genna arrive?”

“The last raven she sent was from Deep Den. Expect her in eight days to a fortnight,” he considered her carefully, “I presume your family is not aware of our arrangement?”

“It is not a message I would trust to a raven,” the little queen said, a frown tugged at the corner of her lips, “yet we must act quickly. Every day Joffrey grows angrier and bolder. When his mother returns she will only make him worse. He wants a son and feels it is my duty to provide.”

“I have explained to the boy that a woman cannot conceive while nursing a babe,” again and again, every time the boy came to his tower to complain that his wife would not allow him in her bed, and every time Tywin added more men to the queen’s guard lest his dreams be haunted by Queen Rhaella, “he will not listen to me anymore than he will you.”

“We will be safer when my family is here, but I still fear for my daughter,” a smile flickered across the queen’s lips, “I have sent Septa Nysterica from my rooms, you know. She says that sleeping in my bed will ruin my daughter, but better she be Lysa Arryn’s son than Elia Martell’s.”

If she had expected a reaction, she did not show it. Tywin wanted to tell her that Joffrey would never do such a thing, but it would be a lie, and a poor one. Had not both he and King Robert shown that they would? The queen could not know it, but Cersei had as well, with those twin babes born at the Rock. Instead, he said, “your daughter is as safe as anyone in the Red Keep.”

“And how safe are we, Lord Tywin? If Joffrey should order the gold cloaks to kill you or my daughter or I, do we have enough men to stop him? I bar my door every night in fear. Many times my brother has slept on my floor to protect us. My good-sister sleeps with a blade when she shares my bed,” she looked away from him, to the flowers she had brought with her and her face softened. The queen touched the side of her head, where her hair was swept back to display the simple silver crown she wore, “my mother will finish the preparations for the feast; she is a Hightower and they throw the finest feasts; my father will see to the gold cloaks, he has brought a small army with him; my grandmother will arrange for the guests, Redwynes were always the best at politicking; Garlan and Loras are great knights who will see to my daughter’s safety; and I will sit among all the high lords beside Joffrey and play the queen. But you must keep your word as well, Lord Tywin.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“It has been three months, and you do nothing while I hide my daughter in fear. You swore to me that you would make her a queen and so I wait. I will not wait forever,” her crown had caught the light and she looked like the Maiden born again, “even roses have their thorns.”

“It is not the right time,” he had a few loose ends to tie up on the princess’ behalf before he rid them of Robert’s son, and, hopefully, the last of the Targaryen madness, “have patience. Do you think such plots are accomplished in a matter of months?”

“If he kills my daughter there will be war,” she warned. He did not doubt her. If the princess died, Lord Mace would call his banners and rid himself of Cerenna to free his heir’s hand. Willas could be offered to Arianne Martell or Arya Stark and two kingdoms would rise. If the Tyrells could secure Dorne, the North might rise of it’s own accord. Tywin had received only one message from the Spicer woman, hastily written and giving no information; if she had been discovered they would have reason to rebel. Perhaps Baelish could raise the Vale for Joffrey, but he would be a fool if he did, and the Riverlands had no men left to send.

Two thousand gold cloaks could kill the queen, but they could not secure the city.

“One week,” he said. Jaime might raise the Stormlands in the name of Tommen and his would-be Penrose betrothed, but they were spent as well. What remained of the Lannister forces would be caught between the Tyrells and their allies. It was a war that could be won, but not one that Tywin would like to fight, “after the princess’ celebration.”

“Two weeks,” the queen considered him. He could see the ghost of Queen Rhaella in her seat, a handprint purpling her face, but when he blinked it was gone. The gleam in the Tyrell girl’s brown eyes surprised him, “what are you waiting for? Every night you risk Joffrey doing something foolish. You must want something. Tell me what it is, and I will give you your two weeks.”

“If you had birthed a son we would not need to wait,” she stiffened in her seat, already opening her mouth to repeat the mantra she had developed for Joffrey, but Tywin continued, “but a daughter must have a husband. A husband with royal blood, if it can be managed. A husband who will obey his wife.”

“A Dornishman,” she was more clever than he had thought.

“A specific Dornishman,” he agreed, “in the days that Lyonel Baratheon was lord, he had a daughter promised to a Targaryen, but that betrothal was broken. Instead, the girl wed a man of Dorne. A distant relation, but Lyonel had only the two children, and his son had only one child.”

“And that child had only three sons,” Queen Margaery understood now, “Robert, Stannis, and Renly. Who did that daughter wed?”

“You will find him at the feast,” he promised.

“And if this man is not available?”

“Then she will wed Tommen,” he was loathe to make such a match. Targaryens had wed uncle to niece and brother to sister, and look where that had led. Mad Aerys and Mad Joffrey. He would be depriving the Stormlands of their desperately needed liege lord as well, but he had few options. He could not wed the babe himself, both of his sons were wed and too old besides, and he would not risk the Rock’s heir.

The thorns had been removed from the roses on his desk, but the queen still had hers. She drew herself out of her chair with a grace unmatched by even Queen Shaera, her peach skirts settled in long waves and the silver of her crown gleamed against her dark hair. Even Cersei had never looked so much a queen. Queen Margaery played the game as well as any, even if she bartered with the life of her daughter.

Now he understood as well.

“Find your Dornishman,” she said, “you have one week after the feast and not a day more.”

Tywin could not suppress the laugh, “and what will you do if I cannot meet your timeline?”

“I will go to his bed,” she answered, and it was not Queen Rhaella he saw now but Joanna. Joanna on her deathbed, bleeding out her lifeblood, holding her son - their son - in her arms and begging. _He is a Lannister. My blood, your blood. Swear to me._ The little queen’s eyes were bright as she looked down on him, “and I will kill him.”

She would kill herself as well, to start a war that might destroy both their houses. Yet her daughter would survive it. Jocelyn would be the key to the Iron Throne. No man would kill her rather than wed her. Tywin wanted to say that she would not do it. Her mother would die, her father would die, her grandmother and her brothers, her cousins and her by-law kin. The memory nagged at him, though, his proud Joanna dying slowly before him, the honor of her house forgotten, asking only for the life of a dwarf.

Tywin had to close his eyes to rid himself of her face, “two weeks. Bar your door and keep your brother close. I will send you more guards.”

“What good are guards?” the rose queen asked, “speak to the king softly, Lord Tywin. I fear all our lives depend on it.”

And she left him alone with her roses and the scent of cloves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that long awaited Tywin chapter. Look for another shortly. Sorry it's mostly dialog, it's also mostly plot :)
> 
> I liked the comments we had. Yes, Essos for Shireen to keep the poor girl safe. How safe a Baratheon is near Dany, though... I promise more Rickon, just not right now. 
> 
> Next chapter: Winterfell


	57. Lady Stark X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Northern politics are as violent as their southern sister, no matter what their lords might say.

3/3/301

The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

Jeyne was not a man, but if she allowed someone else to carry out her duty these Northerners would not like her more. They ringed the courtyard, men in Stark wolves and flayed men, giants and longaxes, and watched as the accused was led out. Her mother was haggard, her fine dress torn and dirty from the cells, her hair wild and matted from lack of care, but still he head was high as she was marched across the yard. She stopped underneath the noose and allowed it to be fitted over her head. Jeyne took a long, steadying breath and remembered Robb.

  
“Sybell Westerling of House Spicer,” the sword she held would break if it so much as touched a king’s longsword, but it was as sharp as anything they would wield in battle, “you have been found guilty of the murder of Robb Stark and his unborn son. Have you any last words?”

  
“Kinslayer,” her mother accused, “even among barbaric gods of the North, no man is so accursed as a kinslayer.”

  
The sword was cold in her hands, “you are not my kin. You murdered my son and my husband, and would have traded this son to the Lannisters for a castle. I renounce you. You are no blood of mine.”

  
Behind her stood Lady Catelyn in her mourning clothes and Brienne in her armor, the large woman’s hand was on the hilt of her sword while her leige stared at Sybell. On Jeyne’s other side was Arya, shaking with rage, and solem-faced Lyra. She had offered to behead Sybell herself, but Jeyne had refused her. Even a sword this small was heavy when lifted above one’s head and her arms trembled with the weight of it. Then she brought it down with all her weight behind it.

The rope snapped in two.

  
When Jeyne turned around, all that was left of her mother was a pale body with a broken neck, swinging in the wind. It took her a moment to find her voice, “take her down and bury her.”

  
“It is traditional to burn bodies in the North,” Beth said. She had looked away when Jeyne’s sword came down.

  
“And in the Westerlands it is traditional to bury them. See it done,” she gave the sword to Lyra, Grey Wind at her heels.

  
Her long skirts dragged in the mud as she walked away from the scene. Jeyne paid them no mind as she headed into the little forest near the gates. The maids called it Eddard Stark’s godswood, but it was hers now, and she knelt by the great weirwood in the center of the forest to pray. Once she was there she did not know why she had come. A healthy babe, perhaps, but the gods rarely listened to such prayers. Did she want a son? He would be named King of Westeros and marry Stannis Baratheon’s only daughter, a pawn used to lead the North into war. Did she want a daughter? She would be wed by some noble lord in hopes of taking her title for himself and using her claim to rule.

  
She wanted Robb back, but she could not have that.

  
Lady Catelyn found her before the weirwood tree many hours later. Jeyne was sheltered from the worst of the weather by the tree’s great branches, but her skirts were still damp and her face red with cold. She could sense her good-mother before she could see her as she walked alone into the godswood, Grey Wind’s whine giving her away. Lady Catelyn paused before the stone bench behind her she spoke, “it will be dinner in a few hours. You should change and ready yourself.”

  
“Do you not pray to the gods, Lady Catelyn?” her good-mother’s eyes were red with tears and she wore a thick fur cloak over her pale skin.

  
“My sons are dead. What is left to ask for?” she shook her head slowly, “there is much to be done, I have no time to pray. We must arrange a match for Arya and consider one if you have a daughter.”

  
“Robb did not want Arya to wed,” Jeyne stood slowly, shaking the worst of the snow out of her skirts, “she is only twelve and not yet flowered.”

  
“I was not yet flowered when my betrothal was arranged,” Lady Catelyn answered, as she tugged her cloak in tightly, “and I did not wed until I was six and ten.”

  
Jeyne shook her head, but her good-mother was right. A betrothal was not a wedding, “perhaps the Karstark heir or a Ryswell would suit her.”

  
“No,”Lady Catelyn frowned, “we can take sons for fostering from Umber and Karstark and Ryswell. Better we wed Arya to someone we cannot take a fosterling from. Alys Karstark took Rickard Dustin, but perhaps a Bolton husband would suit her.”

  
“Lord Roose is the age of Arya’s father,” Jeyne did not like the idea of it, “and older besides.”

  
“Who else is there that would bind us to the Boltons? We could not wed her to his bastard, and he has no close relatives.”

  
“There are the Ryswells. Roose Ryswell is his heir should he die without a trueborn child.”

  
“He has already complained that we stole his Frey girl from him, if we replace her perhaps he will be more supportive of your babe.”

  
“Roose Bolton is not supportive of anyone save Roose Bolton,” Jeyne answered, “he may be quieter in his disdain, but it will not lessen. You will not offer Arya to him, I forbid it.”

  
Lady Catelyn drew herself up. She was a few inches taller than Jeyne and she used that to her advantage as she looked down on her, “you forbid it? I am her mother and the Warden of the North. You cannot forbid me anything.”

  
“So long as Robb’s babe is in my belly I am the Lady of Winterfell and the ruler of House Stark,” Jeyne replied. She should feel insulted, but her heart ached too much for that, “Arya’s hand is mine to give and mine alone. I am surprised at you, Lady Catelyn. You would trade one of your husband’s last heir off to the Dreadfort for what? A few more years of scheming ?”

  
“Arya will not be his heir if you cannot carry that babe to term.”

  
If she meant to wound she was utterly unsuccessful. Jeyne blinked at her calmly, “even then, Arya would not be his heir. If my babe dies, Sansa is his heir, Sansa and her Lannister sons.”

  
“The North will never belong to the Lannisters.”

  
“Were I you I would mind your words, then, and wish a easy pregnancy on me,” Jeyne counseled, “for the law is clear: elder daughters come before younger ones.”

  
“Female succession has always been muddled. It often matters more who the daughter are married to rather than the age of the daughters.”

  
“It was you who married her to the Lannisters,” Jeyne replied, “you would deny your own daughter her birthright because you made a poor choice? You are more like my mother than I had thought, Lady Catelyn. You will do what is best for your family, unless your choices have set them in your way.”

  
Grey Wind stayed at her side as she escaped from her good-mother. Perhaps all of her family was doomed to be like this, her murderous mother and treacherous good-mother. There were few enough men that Robb would have considered a match for Arya, and Roose Bolton was not among them.

  
Jeyne did not know where she was meant to go, and so she found herself following her good-mother’s advice. When she threw open the door to her chambers, she found that they were already occupied. Arya and Beth were seated on her bed, the younger girl watching as Beth played with a giggling Snow. Lyra was overseeing a pair of maids as they filled a bath. They all fell silent as Jeyne entered.

  
“Jeyne?” her sister’s eyes were red with crying, but she held a dress of grey wool with white trim, “we’ve drawn a bath for you.”

  
“Eleyna-” her sister launched herself at her, one of the poor kitchen maids ending up with the dress, and Jeyne wrapped her arms around her sister and tried not to cry as well. She wanted to say she was sorry, although she was not, but she knew that Eleyna would not believe her even if she did say it. Instead she gripped her sister’s arms and pushed her back, “listen, I am sending a letter to Sansa. Perhaps she can convince her husband to send father, Elys, and Raynald to us.”

  
“Why would she?” Eleyna asked, blue eyes clouded with her tears, “mother killed her brother.”

  
“She is a Stark nonetheless, and I wed her brother.”

  
“I am sorry, Jeyne,” she hugged her sister tightly.

  
“I am sorry too. Go and dress to accompany me to dinner. Perhaps you’ll find some high lord to wed,” Eleyna looked torn, but nodded. Jeyne looked over to Beth, “is there a maid that could help her?”

  
“I will help her,” Beth replied, as she turned to Arya, “are you all right with the babe?”

  
“Me? I know nothing of children.”

  
“You just have to make sure he does not fall off the bed,” Jeyne laughed, tired. Arya stared at her from those strange grey eyes, but made no objection. From her it was as good as a yes, “go on, Beth. I will summon the wet nurse so Arya can ready herself too.”

  
“What is wrong with how I look?” Arya demanded.

  
“Nothing, if you mean to sit among the stable boys,” Jeyne answered, “but if you mean to sit among the high lords you must change.”

  
“And what if I want to sit with the stable boys?”

  
“I would advise against it. Best you find a man you like before your mother chooses for you.”

  
“Mother would never do that,” Arya shook her head stubbornly, “Robb did not want it.”

  
“Robb is gone, sweet sister,” Jeyne answered.

  
“But mother knows I do not want to marry!”

  
“Perhaps she does not care. Many alliances have been sealed with a wedding, including my own and your mother's and your sister’s. Do you think that Sansa wanted to marry the Kingslayer?”

  
“Sansa’s always dreamed of marrying a chivalrous knight,” Arya shrugged, “mayhaps she got her wish.”

  
“Do you think the Kingslayer is chivalrous?”

  
Arya had no answer for that. When the wet nurse came, she climbed from the bed and left. By the time Jeyne had bathed and dressed, Eleyna had returned. She had abandoned her pale brown dress for a pink creation from the Westerlands covered by a heavy elk fur. Jeyne laughed, but could not deny her the comfort. Arya, far more sullen than her brave Eleyna, waited at the door. The Stark girl had found a dress of black, trimmed with white thread. Her hair was drawn back into a long braid and she waited outside Jeyne’s door with a frown. Jeyne took one of her sisters on each arm and led them down to the great hall.

  
Lady Catelyn was already there, seated beside Maege Mormont and Barbrey Dustin when Jeyne entered the Hall. Robb’s seat had been left open for her, flanked by Lady Barbrey on one side and Roose Bolton on the other. She sat in the chaos of the hall, her sisters escaping to sit with Rickard Dustin - or was it still Ryswell? - and his bride-to-be. Bolton was discussing the marriage of his bastard to some Tallhart daughter with Brandon Tallhart, castellan of Torrhen’s Square, and as she sat Brandon turned to her.

  
“Lady Jeyne, you look lovely.”

  
“Thank you, Brandon.”

  
“Lord Bolton and I,” he nodded toward Roose, “have been discussing the matter of the Hornwood lands.”

  
“What matter?”

  
“That they have no heir, my lady.”

  
“They do have a heir,” Jeyne replied firmly.

  
“...I beg pardon, my lady? Houses Tallhart, Karstark, and Flint all claim them by right of the female line, and Lord Bolton through his bastard’s marriage to Donella Hornwood.”

  
“I was not aware Donella was born a Hornwood.”

  
“She was not,” Roose ground out, “she was born a Manderly. That hardly means that the Manderlys inherit her lands.”

  
“She had no lands,” Jeyne answered, “she was a Manderly.”

  
“Then you acknowledge the claim through the female line?” Brandon asked eagerly.

  
“Is there another claim? I was unaware of it. As I understand, Hornwood belongs to your lady mother for she is the sister of the last lord. If she and her sons should die without issue, the title and lands go first to Lord Halys’ elder aunt who wed a Karstark, then to his younger aunt who wed a Flint. Am I incorrect?”

  
Roose Bolton stared at her with his strange, pale eyes, “that is inheritance law, yes. But Donella made Ramsay her heir before she died. As Barbrey made Rickard Ryswell.”

  
“Rickard Ryswell is the lawful heir, Lord Bolton,” Jeyne explained calmly, “Willem Dustin was the last Lord Dustin and had no siblings. His father had only one sibling, a sister, who wed Lord Rodrik Dustin. As she is dead, her son is her heir. As he has respected Lady Barbrey’s rights as a widow, Rickard is not yet Lord Dustin, but it is only that courtesy that keeps him from the title.”

  
Across the table Lady Maege nodded, “as is the law. Were it not the law, I would not be Lady Mormont.” Lord Bolton had looked to Lady Maege as she spoke. Then he looked to Barbrey Dustin, who was frowning.

  
“Do you still intend to wed Lady Eddard, Brandon?” Lady Barbrey asked.

  
“Yes,” he answered, “I will serve as castellan while she rules. My father had arranged it before he died. As Lady Jeyne has cleared up the conflict, that makes my brother Beren the Lord of the Hornwood.”

  
“Is your brother betrothed?”

  
“No, but there’s been some talk of him wedding Wynafryd Manderly,” Jeyne considered that. Wynafryd was the cousin twice removed of Donella Manderly. It would add insult to injury to allow that match, yet what could she do? No just king would reward Ramsay Snow’s actions with any sort of Bolton match. If she was to rule the North, she would be just, like Robb was.

  
“There has also been some talk of him marrying my niece,” Lady Barbrey said, “Racyl Ryswell, Roger's eldest daughter. The girl is nineteen, trueborn and of noble blood. She would make a good match.”

  
“Perhaps she would, Lady Barbrey, but my brother is only twelve. There is no hurry. I will mention it to my mother, though. I have seen Rahyl, she is a great beauty.”

  
“Indeed she is,” Jeyne agreed. Such a match would keep the Hornwoods loyal to the Starks, but also calm the Dreadfort. It was Racyl that had Lord Bolton’s eyes, and she suspected that the girl was only unpromised because Lord Rodrik had hoped to wed her to Lord Bolton himself. That, or to Robb Stark.

  
“Have you named a regent if you should become ill during the birth?” Lady Barbrey asked. Jeyne suspected that she meant to prod Lady Catelyn, but the other woman was speaking with to Lady Maege and did not look up.

  
“I would hope my sisters would care for my son and teach him to rule a castle,” Jeyne answered, as she nodded to where Eleyna sat with Arya.

  
“Which one?” Brandon laughed.

  
“Have you decided on what you will do if you have a girl?” Lord Bolton inquired softly.

  
“I do not understand,” Jeyne replied.

  
“She must have a husband. Traditionally she would wed a cousin or uncle, but there are no Stark cousins and no uncles. The only male Starks alive are Benjen Stark and Lord Eddard’s bastard, both of whom are sworn to the Night’s Watch.”

  
Jeyne smiled sweetly at him. He reminded her of Lord Tywin, in truth, and that frightened her, “there are no men in the North, Lord Bolton, but I recall that Jocelyn Stark wed a Royce and had three daughters. The eldest, Mylessa, wed Lord Lyo Corbray and had three sons; the second, Myva, wed Morton Waynewood, heir to House Waynewood, and they have two sons and a daughter; and the youngest, Mari, wed first a Templeton, who died not two years later with no issue, and then her cousin Lord Nestor Royce and had a son and a daughter. Mylessa Corbray and Mari Waynewood are still alive, at Ironoaks and the Gates of the Moon respectively. Robb’s daughter would have any number of cousins to choose from.”

  
“There are many Northermen who would gladly wed your daughter,” Lady Maege said, “there is no need to go to the Vale or Casterly Rock.”

  
“It was not my suggestion, Lady Maege,” Jeyne answered, “it was Lord Bolton’s.”  
“Do you have a suggestion?” Lady Barbrey asked.

  
“If Arya weds and has sons, one of them would be a good choice. Otherwise, the North has many trueborn sons who would take her name willingly for their blood to be in the line of House Stark. I am sure someone can be found.”

  
They left the subject at that. Lady Catelyn watched Jeyne for the rest of the night, but she did not follow when Jeyne made to leave the hall. Lady Barbrey did, linking their arms and chatting merrily. As she finally started up the steps to her sitting room, Roose Bolton caught up with her on the stairs. Her companion laughed as he came up “Roose, you’ll frighten the girl. Stop sulking in the shadows.”

  
“I apologize, Lady Stark. I meant no offense.”

  
“It’s quite all right, Lord Bolton. Is there anything I can help with?” the bustle of the hall behind him assured her that she was in no danger.

  
“Your good-mother had mentioned that you were considering offering me Lady Arya’s hand.” Jeyne stared at him. She had not thought that Catelyn’s conversation in the garden indicated that she had already spoken to Lord Bolton.

  
“I am considering many men for Lady Arya,” Jeyne answered, trying to think of what her mother would say, “but she is only twelve. I mean to wait a few years after she flowers to marry her away. It is what Robb wanted.”

  
Roose Bolton smiled, but it was an imitation of kindness and a poor one at that, “I am not so old that I cannot wait, Lady Jeyne. They say I am a cold man, but my wife will lack for nothing. Ask Lord Flint, ask Lady Barbrey, my wives were happy at the Dreadfort.”

  
“He speaks the truth,” Lady Barbrey said, but Jeyne had not looked to her.

  
“As I said, I mean to wait a few years, but that does not mean I would not consider you,” Jeyne would never marry Arya to this man, “I thank you for your concern, Lord Bolton. I will consider it when she is ready.”

  
He gave a half-bow and left them on the steps. Jeyne smiled and led the way to her sitting room, her smile plastered on all the while. She did not like this, the Dustins and the Ryswells and the Boltons. The Smalljon and the Wull man had quieted, and she knew that Lord Rodrik’s heir had wed an Umber. Now Rickard was marrying a Karstark. If she was a suspicious person, she might think they were solidifying pacts. If Robb’s babe died, Winterfell would belong to Arya and any husband she might take, the ultimate prize for a coup.

  
If she had chosen differently in the Hornwood conflict, would Lord Bolton have wanted to marry her instead?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! Tywin always has fans :) but you guys made me feel really appreciated!
> 
> New Winterfell chapter! It's the last for a while so enjoy it while you can. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa


	58. Lady Lannister XII

3/5/301

His name was Jerion.

When she had woken, Roslin had run for the maester, but Myrielle had lain her son in her arms and when Sansa looked into his face she had known that he was the man from her dreams. At last she understood Cersei. She would murder and scheme and die for the infant she held in her arms, would offer him the Seven Kingdoms if she could. When Jaime and Tyrion arrived, Sansa had held the babe out and guided Jaime’s arms to hold him, and from that moment he could deny her nothing.

It was Tyrion who told her that Cersei had snuck into her rooms while she was unconscious and it was Tyrion who had found her and demanded she leave, but Cersei had only relinquished the babe and left when Jaime intervened. Sansa had wanted to be angry at the thought of Cersei feeding her babe and holding him, but she could not be. That Cersei was so desperate as to think sneaking milk to a babe was a victory was only a victory in truth for Sansa. Even so, had the woman still been in the castle, Sansa might have roused herself from her bed. As it was, she had her sons set in a crib at her side and stayed put as the maester bid her.

After the birth, it seemed the entire castle was warmer. Not that they had been rude before, but now they came to her instead of waiting for her to find them. They all conspicuously ignored Robert, but Jerion was the delight of the castle. Maids held him and knights peered into his cradle with a child’s eager eyes. It was all Sansa could do not to laugh. Even her own family was delighted at the boy’s birth. Myrielle doted on both boys, and although Joy favored Robert she prefered to read to them instead of playing. Sansa was not convinced that it helped the boys sleep or furthered their education, but she had no objection.

It was mid-day now. The sun shone brightly as Sansa poured over records that Tyrion had fetched from her rooms, both babes asleep next to each other. She wore a red silk gown that was almost too hot for the weather, and if Tyrion had not been visiting she might have changed. At some point Nala had climbed into the crib to sleep on Jerion. The maester had been frightened, but the cub was surprisingly gentle with the infant. She had been forced to ban Knight from the crib - with Lady as an enforcer - but Nala was ever careful. Not once had either of the children cried out in pain, and when they woke in the night they sought the lioness cub out. Lady was draped across Sansa’s legs, while Knight had chosen to bury himself between her pillows, one of his paws hung off the bed at the end of her field of vision.

“We are expecting the Lefford harvest to be announced sometime this week,” Tyrion was musing as she read through the Marbrand figures, “we still need to finish preparing the last of the silos for their arrival.”

“It will not be for a few weeks yet,” Sansa answered.

“One never knows with Leffords,” Tyrion half-laughed, “half the time they harvest early, the other half late. I am beginning to think that their harvest depends solely on their lord’s mood.”

“That is unkind, Tyrion. And in little Jerion’s presence too! You will turn him against them before he has a chance to be a page, much less a squire.”

“Did you mean for him to squire at the Golden Tooth?” her good-brother hesitated, “generally, father will decide when to foster his heirs.”

“Yes, when we discussed it he said that he did not want to honor the Marbrands overmuch, as his own mother had been a Marbrand, but that he thought the Leffords would do well for Jerion,” Tyrion gave no reply, and when she looked up he was staring at her, “what?”

“I only… that is to say-” he was saved from having to respond by a sharp knock on the door.

“Yes?” Tyrion called, a bit too quickly.

“The maester asked me to bring these,” Prince Tommen said as he ducked into the room. The boy wore the gold of a Baratheon, but the Lannister lion was blazoned on his shoulder. According to Jaime the boy was becoming a very good page, and he had lost a bit of weight as well. He held out two small letters, both rolled tightly and bound to a raven’s foot not long past, “Letters, Lady Sansa, bearing the Stark seal.”

Sansa took them with eager hands and gently broke one of the seals. The more she read the less excited she became, and at last she looked up to Tommen, “tell Jaime that I appreciate him sending these to me.”

He bowed and was gone, and the moment the door shut behind him Sansa let her head loll back onto her pillows. Tyrion smirked at her, “ill news?”

Yes- well,” she frowned at him, “no. Jeyne Westerling hung her mother on crimes of murder and treason,” Sansa answered. She had not thought that Robb’s wife would take such drastic action, “my mother means to marry my sister to Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. She is a fool but she would never heed my word.”

Tyrion paused, dubious, “marrying your sister to a high lord would do well for them. They need support now that they do not have your brother.”

“If Arya weds a Bolton, they’ll take Winterfell through her claim,” Sansa answered, “my father was always wary of Roose Bolton.”

“That will never happen,” Tyrion assured her.

“Why not? The Boltons have many men,” almost as many was Winterfell before the war, perhaps more now. Sansa did not say that. She had thought of Robb for many long hours after she had woken, and it would surprise her greatly if Sybell Spicer had acted alone. Why would she think that Tywin would trade Robb’s son for her family if she had not spoken to him of it? Even if she was wrong, it was best not to give ideas to any listening ears.

“If anything happens to your brother’s babe, my father will march north to take Winterfell for your sons,” Tyrion did not smile as he said it. Sansa had no wish for it to come to war, but he was right. If the male line died, Winterfell would rightfully belong to her. More importantly, there was no one in the North who Arya could marry that could withstand the might of the Lannisters. Even if they closed the Neck, the royal fleet and the Lannister fleet were more than capable. Perhaps she would go home after all. It was not as if she would trust her boy to a Bolton, “what of the other letter?

Sansa picked it up. It too was sealed by a wolf, and Sansa opened it gingerly. The handwriting was unfamiliar but easily legible, “this is from Robb’s wife. She asks of...Gawen, Elys, and Raynald... do we have Westerlings at the Rock?”

“Yes,” he seemed reluctant.

“For how long?”

“Since your brother left the south, at least,” Tyrion shook his head, “father wanted hostages. After all, he could not marry you to Jaime and then immediately turn around and kill you if your brother started back south. Instead, he took his wife’s sister, mother, and younger brother North, while her father, uncle, and elder brother remained here.”

“What is to be done with them?”

“Currently they are hostages for the Lady Stark’s good behavior,” he paused, considering, and then went on more slowly, “I suspect that after her babe is born he will offer to release one or two of them in exchange for a marriage pact.”

“I wish to meet these men,” Sansa determined. 

Tyrion sighed heavily, “I will have them brought here for dinner, although it may be a little later than usual. It is a long trip. Father did not want to risk them escaping and harming anyone.”

“There are fast horses in the Rock,” the horses within the Rock were not quite horses, in Sansa’s opinion. They were only 1.4 meters tall at the shoulder and had strange hooves with multiple toes. According to Jaime, they ran better on rock than normal horses. The stablemaster Hoken had not been so kind, but he had been more informative. Long ago they had begun to breed these creatures to travel under the Rock, at first they blinded the foals at birth, but eventually all of them had become sightless, ”have them summoned.”

“That may not be wise.”

“Why not?”

“Obella Sand is due to arrive tomorrow, is she not?”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“The Dornish are not particularly fond of father.”

“Are they particularly fond of Northermen?”

“Well, no,” Tyrion paused, fumbling, and at last said, “however, father might not approve of… discussions, with your brother’s kin.”

“If you think so, then send a raven to Lord Tywin and ask him. However, until you receive his reply I would like to speak to them.”

“I will summon them, but do not say that I never warned you,” Sansa laughed at that.

Tyrion returned her son to his crib and slid from his chair. He pulled the door open to find his squire, “Podrick, arrange for the Lord Westerling and his brother and son to be brought to dinner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tyrion closed the door just as quickly and turned back to her.

“Does that please you?”

“No, tell him to fetch me my maids as well. I need help to get ready.”

Tyrion tore open the door again, “Josmyn!”

“Yes?”

“Come back here. I said that Pod is to fetch the Westerlings, not you.”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“Go and tell Sansa’s ladies that she needs help preparing for dinner.”

“Ladies, my lord?”

“Yes. Ladies. Lady Myrielle, Lady Ysilla, Lady Roslin, Lady Larra, Lady Jeyne, Lady Joy...ladies. Go and tell them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tyrion looked back at her, “and now?”

“Well enough,” Sansa agreed. He closed the door and came back to her as she picked up the paper she had set aside when Tommen arrived, “what’s this? Why do the Banefort’s and the Estren’s seek Lannister men?”

“The tales of lions have made them nervous,” Tyrion looked over to Knight, “they want to send a party into the hills to find any that are left. Jaime thought-”

“They will do no such thing,” her good-brother stopped to stare at her. Sansa plucked her quill out of the ink and began to write on a new paper, “and if they should do something so foolish, they will bring me every lion they find. Alive.”

By now, Tyrion was looking at her as though she had grown a mane herself, “I’m sorry?”

“How many people have lions killed in the past century?” she did not look up from her writing.

“Five,” Tyrion answered, “and that was before they became so numerous they started wandering out of their mountains. I was nearly the sixth.”

“Do you think my cubs would harm you?” she looked to Nala, asleep between two newborns. When she looked back to Tyrion, his gaze was fixed on Knight. The male cub was lazily chasing Lady’s wagging tail with his paws.

“They are  _ cubs _ . Their mother would have.”

“And when they are adults?”

“You raised them,” he replied stubbornly. Sansa looked away from him and back to her cub. She knew the scent of his mother as well as he himself did, had dreams that were not dreams of being inside his skin, as she had with Lady. Although she could not control it yet, and it was easier with Lady, she knew that it could be replicated with adults of the same species. It was not just some instinct that told her this, although that was what it started as. In Joy’s prized books the maesters dismissed the idea as wives tales, but between their factual approach and the Northern tales of her childhood she knew it was possible. Tyrion would never believe her if she said that, so she did not, “that is why they would not harm me.”

“If I was there with you the lioness would not have harmed you either,” but there was something else from Joy’s books that Sansa remembered, and because it had been Tyrion who owned those books, he would as well, “in the days of the Dance of the Dragons there were many wild dragons. They killed men and burned land, but no man would touch them on the order of the Targaryens.”

“Those were dragons. They were a bit harder to kill.”

“Dorne managed it.”

Tyrion shook his head, “the Targaryens ruled over the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Of which the Westerlands is one. If Jaime orders it, they would obey.”

“As you say. But you are telling Jaime, not I.”

Sansa laughed, but before she could answer a soft knock sounded and Myrielle pushed the door open. She smiled at them with unusual warmth as she pressed past Tyrion to hover over the crib. Behind her came Roslin and her maids, arms full of fabrics, and Jeyne was only just behind. Joy was carrying books instead of dresses, but she smiled brightly as she sat them aside and came to Sansa. Little Lorra was last, while Ysilla was conspicuously missing, but Sansa brushed her sheets aside and sat up nonetheless. 

Tyrion allowed himself to be shooed out the door and that was the last Sansa saw before Joy was upon her, “Josmyn said that you are visiting with the Westerlings at dinner?”

“Yes,” she accepted the younger girl’s hands to help her stand, “I had thought my pink gown with the white embroidery might do?”

“No,” Joy liked her historys as much as Arya had, or perhaps more, but she still managed to know more about fashion than Sansa did, “not while meeting the Westerlings. You must wear red, Lannister red, and gold if it can be helped. You must be Lord Jaime’s wife, not the sister of a Stark,” she turned aside to one of Myrielle’s maids, “fetch- oh, nevermind, I’ll get it.”

While she was gone, Myrielle caught Sansa’s arm, “what do you think?”

The dress she gestured to was of the same style that Cersei wore, a common Westerlands style, and red besides, but where Cersei would have had gold, Myrielle had silver, “you will look lovely.”

“I thought I might,” Myrielle preened, but it did not last but for a moment, “tell Jeyne that she must come with us.”

“I do not want to go,” Jeyne answered. The girl was helping to carry a kirtle from Sansa’s closet.

“Why not?” asked Sansa.

“You must,” said Myrielle, “eventually Lord Tywin will begin looking for a man for you to wed. You must have an idea of who you want if you hope to have a say in the father of your sons.”

“I do not want a man to wed or sons,” Sansa knew how she felt. 

“If you want to go home, Jeyne, I can speak with Jaime about it, truly,” Sansa let Joy pull the red silk away and obediently dressed in the linen chemise she was handed.

“I do not want to go home either. I want to stay here, with you,” her friend’s eyes were dark with worry, but Myrielle, now clad in a silver kirtle, frowned.

“You do not have to leave if you take a husband. Many women act as companions even after having children.”

“She does not have to join us tonight,” Sansa said, when neither of her friends would stop staring at her, “it is only the Westerlings? You should soon, though, Myrielle is right.”

Myrielle spoke softly, “the Westerlings were half my point, Sansa.”

“Surely Tywin would not marry her to one of them?”

“Lord Gawen’s heir, Raynald, is of an age with your brother. Few women in the Westerlands will marry him, for his Spicer blood and for the Westerling alliance with the North. As they have no lands, a Northern girl of noble blood would be a good choice,” she looked to Jeyne, “and it would also mean that you could remain at the Rock with Sansa. In time, one of your daughters might marry Daven’s heir and he would take the Westerling name.”

Jeyne still looked nervous as she looked back to Sansa, “I do not want to marry anyone.”

“Neither did I, but too often we have no choice,” Sansa said. 

“You Northerners are very strange,” Larra Penrose said, as Bonny Hasty secured a russet dress about her shoulders, “I would have been most glad to wed Ser Jaime and if I was the only daughter of a lowborn house with neither lands nor titles, I would be very glad to wed Raynald Westerling.”

Jeyne flinched, and Sansa drew herself up. She knew little about Jeyne’s treatment in King’s Landing, but she had heard enough to know that it was likely less pleasant than her own. For a week after her return, Jeyne could hardly not thank Jaime every time she looked at him, “if you had suffered as we had in King’s Landing, you would not be so pleased. Do you know that the king caused me to lose my first babe?”

The Penrose girl had gone very still, as had her handmaiden, “I apologize, Lady Sansa, I did not think…”

“No,” Myrielle agreed, “you did not, but you are young.”

“For my sake, at least, be kind to Jeyne,” Sansa felt badly for frightening the girl, but she would have felt worse if Jeyne had not been so very pale.

“Will you come to dinner, Jeyne?” Roslin asked. Her maid had finished and gone to help with Myrielle’s intricate belt, “You can wear my pink gown that you like.”

“And you can sit between us as the High Table,” Myrielle agreed. Jeyne seemed to pause at that. They all knew that Myrielle prized her place at Sansa’s right, when Ysilla Royce had tried to take it she had been soundly rebuffed.

“If we must,” she sighed, but when a maid came near she stepped back, “I can dress myself.”

They were nearly ready when a knock sounded on the door and Ysilla Royce stepped in, and Sansa was glad that her sons had already been taken to the nursery for all the noise. She stopped at the sight of them, Roslin and Sansa seated on the bed to fix their slippers, Jeyne fumbling with an earring lent to her by Myrielle, and Myrielle herself arguing with Lorra about the shoes that Bonny should wear, “oh, I did not know you meant to dress together.”

Her handmaiden Colya Shett stood behind her, dressed as finely as her friend, but Myrielle only frowned at them, “I had thought you decided not to join us.”

Roslin ignored them as she stood, “what does it matter, we are ready now. Come, Ysilla,” she linked their arms, “you must sit beside me. I’m told that you have a cloak made of feathers. Is that true?”

The others hurried out as well, Sansa last of all, but as she stepped out of the door Joy called, “oh, Sansa, wait! The maid forgot your earring, you would look strange at dinner.”

Myrielle stopped as well, but Sansa waved her off, “I can find the hall just as easily, stay with Jeyne.”

She returned to her vanity and waited while Joy undid the clasp, “my lady,” she said, as she came close to her ear, “I fear Myrielle was right. Lord Tywin means to send me to become a septa when I turn fourteen.”

“How do you know?”

“He sent a letter to Lord Jaime, and Tyrion told me,” the earring clicked softly into place, and Joy stepped back. Her green eyes, so much like Tyrion’s, were bright with the beginning of tears, “but I do not want to become a septa.”

“I fear I can do nothing to change Lord Tywin’s orders.”

“But there is. There is a girl in the kitchens with blonde hair who wishes to become a septa. We look nothing alike save our hair, but she could pass as me to men who had never seen me, and with your support she could again, at the Rock in seven years time,” Joy shrugged, “much can change in that time. Memories fade.”

“And you pass for a kitchen maid? Is that better than being a septa?”

“I do not want to pass for a kitchen maid. I want to go to the citadel.”

In the darkness of her rooms the air was still, the maids had left before the others and only Lady witnessed this. Still, Sansa lowered her voice, “only men can be maesters.”

“I will cut my hair and bind my chest. If you can secure me a letter of referral, meant for any boy from the Westerlands, I will do the rest.”

“You could die.”

“It will be upon my head, not yours. What is better, a life I do not want or death? I will never be happy as a septa.”

Sansa tried very hard not to think of Arya, but when she looked at Joy she could only see her sister, “I will think on this. I cannot answer now.”

“But you will tell no one?”

“Who would I tell?” Sansa collected her skirts and fled, down the long hall and down the stairs. Only under the gaze of those knights did she pause to smooth her dress out. She had once said that she would sooner be dead than wed to Joffrey. Was that the same? What gave her the right to question Joy’s desires any more than she would have wanted her mother to question her desire to flee Joffrey? At the entrance to the great hall she found her ladies, all speaking quietly. Sansa hurried to join them, frowning at Myrielle when she found her.

“I told you to go without me.”

“There is no rush, even Lord Jaime is not here yet,” Myrielle spoke truly. As they climbed to the high table the hall was near empty. Some singer was singing a poor imitation of the Reynes of Castamere behind them, and it dimmed the noise of the hall enough that she did not know that Jaime was behind her until he touched her shoulder as he passed. Tyrion was with him, and the Westerlings just behind. 

Sansa took a moment to study them as they sat. Although Lord Gawen and his brother had blond hair, the boy Raynald was brunette. Their sister Jeyne was as well, if she remembered correctly, “I am Sansa, my lord,” she greeted, “I fear we are kin but have not yet met.”

“You are Lord Jaime’s wife,” Lord Gawen agreed, “I am glad to meet you.”

“Have you been treated well, my lord?”

“We have, but nothing is so good as one’s own castle,” he nodded, “but that is not your fault. It is hardly your brother’s either. Lord Robb was good to us as any man could be in a war. He had us put under guard, but left us in our own rooms when he could have taken them for himself. I am sorry, Lady Sansa. It means little from my mouth, but he was a good man.”

“Thank you, Lord Gawen. I- have you heard about your wife?”

“Yes, from my daughter’s own hand,” he paused to shake his head, “in truth this is her fault. I thought that the Northernmen would soon leave us, but when Sybell heard that your brother had been injured she told the guard that she was a healer. She was, in a way, and our maester was dead and Stark’s not with him, but it was she who insisted that Jeyne be allowed to stay with him. All a lie, you know. Jeyne was no healer, whatever her mother might be. When we left in the morning, I thought that she had picked our side for us.”

He paused to look to Jaime, “I was not pleased. I have ever been loyal to Lord Tywin, but what could I do? If I fled the Starks would be upon me, and so I stayed. When the time came to choose hostages, I even volunteered. I had no wish to leave the lands of my birth, but now...Sybell has lied to all of us, it seems.”

Sansa did not believe him. She also had no wish for this dinner to end in a swordfight, so she smiled and entertained them, took the measure of her good-sister’s family. For all his pleadings, Lord Gawen was a clever man, Sansa promised nothing. By the end of dinner Myrielle almost seemed smug with pride. 

At long last Sansa stood, and smiled a smile that was a mimicry of Cersei’s, if better done, “I apologize my lord, but I have a newborn son to see. I fear I must leave early. Will you lunch with me tomorrow?”

“It would be an honor, Lady Sansa.”

Jaime caught up with her as she left the hall, and although he still seemed hesitant to touch her, she wrapped her arm through his and let him navigate her through the crowd, “how did you find dinner?”

“The honeyed beef needed less honey,” he replied, “but the Westerlings were at least good company.”

“You would think so,” Sansa smiled sweetly, “he lies like a Lannister.”

“You wound me,” she suspected he was only half joking.

As they came up the stairs, Sansa found the confidence to ask the question that she did not know if she wanted an answer to, “Jaime?”

“Yes?” he seemed pleased at the use of his name.

“What happened to Jeyne in King’s Landing?”

He hesitated, “I had hoped you would ask Jeyne.”

“She has said nothing.”

“I will tell you this,” Jaime glanced at her as they neared her door, “she was turned over to Littlefinger.”

It took a moment to place the name, and when she did Sansa’s stomach churned, “the brothel master?”

“...yes,” they had come to her door now. Sansa wanted to escape the entirety of the conversation and so she reached for the door and pushed it open. When the light of the hall flooded into the room she could make out Joy asleep on her bed with a book across her chest. She did not want to have that conversation either.

When she made no move to venture inside, Jaime spoke, “if you like, you can sleep in my bed.”

The look she gave him must have been harsher than she thought, for his grin slipped, “only sleep, that is. Of course.”

It had been five months since she had so much as seen the inside of his rooms. She caught her door handle and pulled the door shut, then turned back to her husband, “if you cannot act properly I will sleep in Myrielle’s instead.”

“I will be the picture of a chivalrous knight,” Jaime swore, although his grin was back. At least he did not question what was proper between a wife and her husband. Sansa sighed and took his hand. He would have wine, she knew, and that would help pass the time faster than sitting in the dark.

After all, she could still slip into Myrielle’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my longest chapter yet! Yay! I'm gonna have ice cream to celebrate now while I lurk about waiting to see if you like it :)
> 
> Last chapter, I found that having a bunch of people asking questions about the specific parts of my plot (Sybell, specifically) made me think about it more and made me question canon more. So thank yourselves for Gawen blaming it all on (poor?) Sybell. Or thank that singer. Why not both? I'm really glad you guys like my Jeyne! I might have to arrange a meeting with Sansa.
> 
> Next Chapter: Dany (feat. Drogon. It's not a big part, but it's an important one.)


	59. Mother of Dragons VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is there in Asshai that I will not find in Qarth?

8/13/201

Dany woke up to hands on her chest.

This was unusual. Hizdahr generally nudged her awake first to make sure she would not feed him to a dragon, and it was too early for him besides. Her husband greatly prefered to wake late in the day and spend his nights at his desk under the flickering flame of a candle, and although Arianne was an early riser she had the strangest obsession with Dany’s hair. Had someone been brushing her hair, it would have been Arianne. Yet Drogon’s complete calm - he was half-asleep on the balcony - tempted her to roll over and go back to sleep. Hizdahr smelt like cinnamon and spices on her other side, and she knew the smell would be stronger if she curled against him.

Instead she opened her eyes to find Irri a foot from her face, “what are you doing?”

Her voice was groggy with sleep, but Irri only frowned, “we are arguing with the Ghiscari girl.”

Beyond her, Dany could make out Meliqo in her blue tokar frowning at Jhiqui, “about what?”

“She says that you have not bled in two moons and must be pregnant, Jhiqui and I think that it has only been one moon and you are only late,” that woke Dany up. Irri settled back to sit on the bed as she bolted upright.

She could not talk about this with Hizdahr’s sister, of all people, and so she stood. Jhiqui had fetched a white linen robe and was scolding Meliqo, who responded with all the fire she normally did, but Dany had long since learnt that the Ghiscari could hold her own. Dany fixed the robe tightly about her waist and headed for the stairs, the Unsullied watching silently as she went. 

On the stairs she encountered Ser Barristan on his way to his post outside her door. He bowed and said some apology, but Dany was in too much of a hurry to care. A few flights down she came to the guest floor. The Dornishmen had moved into the corridor to the west to catch as much breeze as they could off the bay. She had thought that the door on the left belonged to Arianne, but there was a white dragon scale decorating the door on the right and so that was the door she knocked on.

There was some stumbling about inside the room before the door was opened, and Dany found herself faced with a bare-chested Aegon. He stared at her and she at him, a flush creeping up his neck, and Ser Barristan growing more concerned and clankier behind her. Dany pointed at the door beside his head, where the Martell sun-and-spear was displayed under a dragon scale, “I am looking for Arianne.”

Somehow that made him flush more. He looked over his shoulder, then leaned back suddenly as Arianne peeked over his shoulder. Well, tried too. Thus the leaning. Arianne was an inch shorter than Dany herself, while Aegon had at least two inches on Viserys. Nevertheless, she gripped his arm with one hand as she grinned at Dany, “come in!” she invited merrily, “have you come because Hizdahr is a poor lover? You’re welcome to join us!”

Aegon’s blush had turned the poor man’s ears red. Dany did not want to know what Ser Barristan would look like if she turned around, and so she followed Arianne’s bidding and stepped into the room. When she looked up at Aegon, he would not meet her eyes, “I had hoped to speak with Arianne alone.”

“Of course, my queen,” he turned as if to go further into Arianne’s room and was hit in the chest by a shirt. Arianne, now wearing a beautiful orange and purple robe, shooed him out as if he were a bird and shut the door behind him. 

When Dany turned around, she found that Aegon’s sword was lying beside the bed, as were his shoes. If this turned out to be nothing, perhaps it was not the end of House Targaryen after all. She stood and stared for a moment too long, and Arianne laughed, “what, does Hizdahr put his shoes away before he comes to bed?”

“Hizdahr has a servant who does,” Dany answered. She sat on the edge of Arianne’s bed and curled her feet into her chest, “but I did not come to talk about Hizdahr.”

Her cousin stilled, then nodded, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is  _ wrong _ , it is only-” she stopped to look at Arianne. Her cousin was pouring two glasses of wine, her mess of black curls hung down her back and her jewelry from the night before still gleaming at her wrists, “if I tell you something, will you swear to tell no one? Not even Aegon?”

“Not even Quentyn or Drey. I swear on Viserion’s life,” Arianne said as she lifted her glass to her lips and held the one meant for Dany out.

“One of my handmaidens thinks I am pregnant,” Arianne stopped mid-sip. She looked at the glass she held out to Dany and slowly drew it back, then turned as if to set it on the table again. After a moment’s pause, she turned again, walked to her balcony, and threw the liquid over Viserion’s tail and into the dawn. Only then did she come back and sit both glasses on the table.

“What do you think?”

“I...I cannot be pregnant.”

“Why not?” And so Dany explained it all. The women of the Lhazareen and Drogo’s fall from his horse, Mirri Maz Duur and her blood magic, how she had come to tie the maegi and Qotho to Drogo’s pyre, left her daughter in Jorah’s arms, and walked into the flames. When it was done, she looked up to see that Arianne was crying. 

“I am sorry.”

“Oh, sweet one,” Arianne caught her in a hug tighter than anyone ever had since Willem Darry’s great bear hugs, “do not be sorry. It is not your fault.”

“It is,” Dany answered. She hugged Arianne back and felt something in her chest give, “I should have let the eunuchs heal him and not trusted the maegi. I should have known better.”

“You were a girl, only fourteen.”

“I was a khaleesi.”

“And yet still a girl. Viserys should not have married you at that age.”

“He had to. He had to take us home.”

“Did he take you home?”

No. Viserys had never taken them home. Perhaps that was her fault too, in a way, but she had done all she could to help. It was her brother’s own fault that he had tried to hurt her when she was pregnant, again and again, until she could not hide it from Drogo anymore. Even in the Seven Kingdoms, when a woman married she belonged to her husband and not her father or her brother anymore. That, at least, was Viserys’ fault.

When she had stopped crying they were curled up on Arianne’s bed, Dany’s head on her chest and Arianne still holding her tight. Arianne produced a handkerchief and asked, “is that why you think you cannot be pregnant? Because you were told so by a maegi who murdered your husband?”

“‘When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.’ she told me that, before I killed her.”

Arianne paused, “that is not a prophecy saying that you will never have a child. It is a prophecy saying that Drogo would never return to you.”

“But I am as likely to have a child as the sun is to rise in the west and set in the east, and for the seas to go dry and the mountains blow in the wind,” Dany dried her tears while her cousin thought.

“I do not know much of the Dothraki,” she said at last, “but Irri tells me that when a khal dies, his khaleesi is to never take another husband.”

“That is true,” she agreed, “the khaleesi is taken across the Dothraki sea to Vaes Dothrak, where she joins the dosh khaleen. Such was my fate as well, until my dragons hatched.”

“Then is it possible that she meant that, as you were joining the dosh khaleen, you would never bear another child?” 

Dany had not thought of it like that before. In truth, the more she spoke of not trusting the maegi to heal Drogo the more she wondered if she should trust her word in this. She dried her face as she sat up, and Arianne reached for her table and handed her the water there. It had once held ice, but the night had made it lukewarm. Nevertheless, Dany dipped the fabric in and washed her face.

“How can we know if I am pregnant?”

Arianne frowned, “wait here.”

While her cousin vanished out the door, Dany made herself presentable. By the time she had sat the water and the cloth back on the little table, Arianne was back with Ashara Dayne, who was saying, “you know that I am not a proper septa, right? I only pretended to be one.”

“But you said you were pregnant.”

“...yes-”

“Is there a way to tell if she is?” 

Ashara frowned at Arianne, “yes, get a maester!” 

Arianne signed heavily, “wait here. Marwyn’s quarters are further down.”

She left them there, Ashara nervously staring after her, and after a moment Dany could not stop herself, “you were a companion to Elia Martell, you said.”

“Yes, I was. Elia was my greatest friend,” Ashara offered a weak smile, “I left everything for her.”

“When Elia was in King’s Landing, my mother was as well. Did you ever meet her?”

“Yes,” she answered, “often. Elia’s mother, Princess Lorenza, had served as one of her companions when Elia was only a little girl. Queen Rhaella was fond of her. Some men say that it was the queen who convinced Aerys to marry Elia and Rhaegar.”

What did other men say, Dany wondered, but that was not what she wanted to know now, “could you tell me of her?”

Ashara paused, “what do you know?”

“Ser Barristan told me that she was always mindful of her duty.”

The older woman stared at her, “and of your father?”

“Arianne told me of him. It is not him I want to know of now.”

“Are you certain you want to know?”

That gave Dany pause, but only for a moment. Better to know the vices of her family so she could not repeat them, “yes, please.”

“Barristan was right,” Ashara began slowly, “she was always mindful of her duty. Specifically when, at thirteen, she was forced to wed her own brother by her father. Neither she nor Aerys wanted the match, but King Jaehaerys did and that was all that mattered. Princess Lorenza said that she cried that morning, but by the time of the wedding looked as happy as any new bride could be because that was her  _ duty _ as a princess and a daughter.

“The man Queen Rhaella would have wed left to join the Faith, but it was Joanna Lannister that held Aerys’ favor, and Joanna was one of her ladies-in-waiting. The queen was not very fond of your father, it is true, and she looked the other way for many years, but when Aerys got too drunk and groped Joanna during the poor woman’s wedding feast she took a stand. The kingdoms thought that it was her hurt pride when her husband snubbed her and Elia said that she feared for the Lannister woman, but either way she sent her away. Queen Rhaella was eighteen.

“After Prince Rhaegar’s birth during the Tragedy of Summerhall, Queen Rhaella suffered miscarriages and stillbirths and was locked  _ by Aerys _ in Maegor’s Holdfast, suspected of infidelity herself with two septas sleeping in her bed,  _ blamed for the deaths of her own children _ . When Prince Jaehaerys died, Aerys stopped suspecting her, but he blamed other instead and beheaded the wet nurse. The implication was, of course, that if her children continued to die she would be next. Perhaps the king would behead Tywin Lannister as well and have himself the wife he had wanted. Queen Rhaella was terrified, but  _ ever mindful of her duty _ and perhaps hopeful that her husband would stop hitting her long enough for her children to be born alive, and so Viserys was born.

“It is said from the North to Dorne that Tywin Lannister’s dwarf belongs to Aerys, for he went to Casterly Rock often, leaving his wife and newborn in King’s Landing. The queen was relieved that he was gone, but hurt and disrespected and guilty for what he might do to Joanna. But because she was  _ ever mindful of her duty _ she raised her second son alone. After Harrenhal, she was the one who sent me away. I do not know if it was because she feared that it was Rhaegar who had dishonored me in his growing madness or because she thought Aerys would turn his attentions to me.

“Eventually, as Arianne said, Aerys went insane. The rest I know only from Elia’s letters. The queen did what she could to protect her children and Elia and her ladies, but she could only do so much. She would spend many hours staring at the walls inside her room and Elia would watch Viserys because there was nothing else we could do for her. More and more, Aerys began to attack her when he was in his fits, beating her and raping her, although he never burnt her only others. We should thank the  _ gods _ . 

“Of course, Rhaegar had long since shown the same signs as his father, abandoning Elia and his children to kidnap the daughter of a Lord Paramount and hide her in Dorne.  _ Dorne!  _ But he never hurt Elia, Queen Rhaella made sure of that. When Rhaegar died, Aerys sent her away to Dragonstone to meet Viserys there. I do not know how she felt, but this I do know: when her husband died as he deserved, Queen Rhaella, always mindful of her duty, crowned her son using the same crown she had worn as queen. Sometime before her death she chose to name her unborn daughter Daenerys.”

Ashara’s chest was heaving and tears ran down her face. Dany struggled to her feet, crying again herself, to reach for her and Ashara caught her shoulders to look into her face, “the first Daenerys brought peace to the realm by uniting Dorne and the Six Kingdoms. She started the tradition of the water gardens, where children both lowborn and high played together and she advised her son to remember his realm in everything he did. Aerys named his children for war: Rhaegar for Rhaenys and Viserys for Visenya. Rhaegar did the same with Elia’s babes. But Queen Rhaella did not follow the precedent Aerys set for her. She named her daughter for peace.”

Then she crumpled, and fell into Dany’s embrace.

When the door opened again, she and Ashara had sat on the ground next to each other. Ashara had found Arianne’s spare handkerchief and Dany had fetched the water, and they sat talking and trying not to cry again. Arianne and Marwyn stood in the doorway, uncertain and concerned, and Dany had to struggle to her feet to wave them in.

“I am sorry,” Ashara said, as Arianne helped her to stand, “I should not have told you all of that.”

“I am glad you did,” Dany answered, “I must make a world where women like my mother will never suffer again.”

Ashara tried to smile and failed, “I fear we are stuck with the world we have. Your mother would want you to be happy, above all else.”

Dany thought of Rhaego. Viserys had blamed her over and over again for their mother’s death, but she would have died gladly to give Rhaego life. If her mother had loved her even half so much in the last moments of her life, she owed it to her to make a new world. 

“Is everything all right?” Arianne asked, as Ashara found a seat at her desk.

“We were talking about my mother,” Dany answered. Then she looked to the maester, “my handmaiden thinks I am pregnant.”

“Have you bled this month?”

“One of them thinks I am late. Another believes I am pregnant. Is there a way to tell?”

“Certainly,” he set his bag on the desk beside Ashara, “if you will let me examine you.”

She did not like the look of the metal things he drew from that bag, but she lay back nonetheless. Neither Arianne or Ashara so much as batted an eye. Her cousin helped her sit up once the maester was finished. The man was beaming, it was almost frightening on him, “congratulations, my queen. There is no way to be certain if the pregnancy will last to quickening, of course, but as you have had one child it is very likely.”

“How do you know?” Perhaps there was some common way, and because it had been only Viserys in the Free Cities she did not know.

“A blue coloration caused by the increased flow of blood. It is a sure way to know if a woman is pregnant. If you had come to me too late, we would have to wait to know, but by then you would know if you were late or had missed a month.”

“Then Mirri Maz Duur was wrong.”

Maester Marwyn straightened from his bag and turned to look at her, “that is a name I have not heard in a very long time. Where did you meet Mirri?”

“On the Great Grass Sea in a villiage of the Lhazareen. I saved her life and in exchange she killed my husband. She said she was a healer, the Dothraki called her a maegi, and….how do you know her?”

The room had gone very still. Behind Marwyn, Dany could see that Ashara had her hand on a dagger’s hilt, but if she carried it with her or had taken it from the desk she did not know. Behind her, she could hear the scrape of Viserion’s claws as she turned about on the balcony, “I met her as I returned from Qarth, once. We spent several long weeks caught in a storm off the coast and she taught me her healing arts in exchange for what I had learnt in Asshai.”

_ Truth. _

“What had you learnt in Asshai?”

“Only shadowbinders and blood mages are in Asshai,” said Ashara. 

“There are other types too,” Marwyn answered, “aeromancers and fire mages, all manner of elemental magics.”

“And necromancers too,” Arianne asked warily, “what kind of maester visits Asshai?”

“The kind with a Valyrian steel mask and rod,” Marwyn looked at her, “if you do not believe me, ask your uncle.”

“I have. I have not gotten a raven in return,” she looked to Dany, “my father is not an open man, but he will reply to the Targaryen seal.”

“Are there Targaryen seals?” Dany did not have one.

“They can be made,” Marwyn said, “but Prince Doran has been at this long. It may be that he does not want to risk a raven.”

“It may be that Queen Daenerys does not want to risk you in her pyramid,” Ashara’s smile was as sweet as Arianne’s could be but did not carry the honesty, “perhaps you should go to Dorne and wait.”

“Is that what the queen desires?” Marwyn looked from Arianne back to Dany.

“No. I will send a message to Prince Doran and ask him to explain. Until then, I ask that you stay.”

“If Prince Doran replies, will the Unsullied guard remain?” 

“He is your guide,” Dany pointed out.

“ _ He _ is my guide,” Marwyn nodded as he closed his bag, “his four companions, however-”

The maester was cut off by a sharp knock at the door. It flew open without waiting for a response and Aegon stood in the doorway. Behind him, two Unsullied stood, one with a smoking shield, “these men say that Jon has been taken into custody.”

“Dāria Daenerys,” the Unsullied who spoke was hidden by his visor, but she knew his voice. That was Marselen, brother to Missandei, who guarded her rooms so that he might be near his sister,” Black Rat vestras bona se azantys se aōha lioragon egros sylutan naejot laodigon se zōbrie zaldrīzes. Se Shavepate iksin zālagon naejot morghon, yn īlon ōregon se tolie lanta.”

“Yn Jon iksis daor morghe?” Aegon demanded. He spoke High Valyrian, which the Unsullied did not, but it was close enough to be understood.

“Daor morghe. Mērī ōregion.”

“I do not understand,” Arianne interjected, “what are they saying?”

“The Shavepate is dead,” Marwyn answered. 

Dany stood to follow the Unsullied, but the robe was woefully pathetic for that. Arianne ran to her wardrobe and pulled out a pair of Dornish pants and a loose white shirt. Without the time for propriety she dropped her robe and pulled on the clothes. 

“And they’ve captured Jon,” Aegon was beside himself, “Daenerys, please, he is like my father. Duck is dead of my own fault, Jon cannot die too.”

“I do not understand,” Arianne had pulled a pair of leather sandals from under her bed and Dany snatched the shoes and struggled to walk and put them on at the same time, “how is he dead? Why has Ser Jon been captured?”

“Drogon burnt the Shavepate alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long has it been since we had a Dany chapter? Long time. Poor Dany's had an emotional moment and thus not noticed Drogon's upset.
> 
> You guys are making me rethink my timeline a LOT. I love you all. I just spent half an hour determining when a character was born so I could make random reference to it.
> 
> Next Chapter: Tywin (feat. Joffrey? Kinda?)


	60. The Old Lion IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is dead until the ripples they cause in the world fade away.

The first glimmer of dawn was visible when the footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  
A knight in full armor could be heard on those steps in his bedroom, from here it sounded as though they were just outside. Tywin opened his drawer, removed a parchment containing a half-finished letter to Lady Sansa, and began to write a new.He had not slept last night, and for many hours he had sat and waited, quill in hand, mind running over the words. Little actual work had been done. The steps climbed to the top of the stairs, quieter on the rugs in the corridor, and then the men outside spoke briefly.

  
Two thundering knocks sounded on the door, “Lord Tywin!” they called.

  
“Yes, what is it?” he grumbled back. The quill held little enough ink that it did not drip on the parchment. Tywin did not look up.

  
The door was thrown open with surprising force and Tywin fixed the first man through the door, Ser Lyle Crakehall, with a glare worthy of the violent interruption. The giant of a man gasped out, “the king is dead!”

  
The quill fell from his hand onto the desk, the ink dripping onto the empty papers there but not onto the letter he meant to send. No point in wasting parchment. He shoved his chair back, “the queen and the princess?”

  
“Are safe. Ser Garlan stood guard all night outside her door.”

  
Tywin took his sword from beside his desk and strapped it about his waist. He left the letter to Lady Sansa, utterly innocent in it’s contents, laying on his desk and stormed into the hallway, “who was guarding the king?”

  
“Myself and Ser Addam,” Ser Lyle explained as they rushed into the Keep.

  
“Then how did the king die?” Tywin turned to lead the way up the stairs, Tyrell and Lannister alike parting before them. The men who guarded the king had been his own, no Tyrell men or Baratheon men to muddy the issue.

  
“He demanded the queen early in the night. As you commanded, we suggested whores instead. The king agreed, as he had a few times before, said the queen was one, so what did it matter?” Ser Lyle was panting as they neared the top, “Ser Addam went to the hall and sent off a Lannister man to get a girl, Jayde her name was, she had come before so we thought nothing of it. We knocked, the king opened the door, and she went in.”

  
“And then?” Tywin demanded, when Ser Lyle said nothing else. He did not look in the direction of the queen’s rooms as they came up the stairs, but he could hear the shouting already. Outside of Joffrey’s door, Cersei and Genna were arguing. His daughter had tears running down her face, but Genna was stubbornly planted in front of her.

  
“And then nothing. Some noise, but nothing that would raise alarm,” Ser Lyle said, “Queen Cersei came this morning and wanted to see him. The whore had not left, so we tried to refuse her, but she insisted. I knocked and no answer. The queen was worried about him. She convinced Ser Addam to try the door, and it opened and we came in to that.”

  
Tywin stepped between his daughter and sister. Genna stopped talking and Cersei did not, but he ignored them both. The man who stood inside the room was Ser Addam Marbrand. He had stood guard with Ser Lyle at Tywin’s command, rather than Ser Merlon, for Tywin was wary of two Crakehalls being outside the dead king’s door. However, for all his planning, Tywin had no need to fake surprise at what he found within the room.

  
Joffrey’s whore lay dead on the ground just in front of the bed. She wore a light pink dress and was covered in blood from the three bolts were embedded in her body. One in her thigh, one in her hip, and the last stuck straight through her wrist. Tywin knew it was the last because it had sliced through the leather strap that had bound the girl’s hands to the bed. It was still there, one side cut through, the other loosened by her desperation. Across her chest lay Joffrey’s prized crossbow, where it had fallen when she breathed her last.

  
On the other side of the room was Joffrey, caught by a crossbolt in his neck, pitched forward, his wine scattered about the room in his fall. He had caught the tablecloth as he went down and dragged that with him, but the moment the crossbolt had pierced his neck he had died. One of his hands was tucked under him, reaching for his throat, and even from here Tywin could see that the floor and underside of his robes were red with blood.

  
In a moment Tywin knew what had happened. The whore had made a lucky shot. Or, rather, Lord Varys had. He could pinpoint the placement of the secret tunnel’s opening based on the arrow through the whore’s arm and the one in Joffrey’s throat. What better weapon for an eunuch than a crossbow? Through the night he had waited, eye pressed to some secret slot in the wall, until the whore had fallen unconscious and Joffrey had stepped away. Then he had eased the door open and put his first shot through the king’s throat.The rest could be done at his leisure.

  
A man could do much with a bag of gold and knowledge of the castle’s tunnels.

  
Cersei was still screaming, although Tywin did not know why, and he turned to face her, “quiet!”

  
Her mouth snapped shut and she drew back, “someone has murdered my son!”

  
“Not someone. A whore,” he nodded at the woman, “that whore. She did it, presumably, because he put two bolts in her.”

  
“She’s gone mad with grief,” Genna shook her head and reached for Cersei’s arm. His daughter tore away from her.

  
“I have not gone mad! That girl could not have made that shot! This is murder!”

  
Tywin turned to Ser Lyle, “did anyone else enter this room?”

  
“No one. I stood at the door myself.”

  
“Ser Addam?”

  
“No one, Lord Tywin. Not once did we leave the door unguarded.”

  
“He’s lying! They must be! Father!”

Genna reached for Cersei again and was shoved back, and Tywin motioned to two of the Tyrell guards.

  
“Escort her to the Tower of the Hand with her aunt,” his sister was silent for once. She understood the seriousness of the king’s death, “Genna, write to Jaime.”

  
“I want my son!” Cersei shrieked, “I want my son!”

  
When she was gone, Ser Loras entered, “my sister wants to know what has happened. She is afraid.” He said nothing else, he had eyes as Tywin did.

  
“Tell her the king is dead, but she has nothing to fear. She is free to wander the castle at her leisure, but ask that she does not come here for her own sake,” if she showed anything less than horror Cersei would leap at the chance to blame her. He could not have that, not now, after all they had done. Tywin looked at Loras, “keep your family out of the room.”

  
He had expected the knight to bristle, but he nodded his head in the same way his sister did, more a bow than a nod in truth, “I will have Margaery tell them. They can honor the king in the sept if they wish it.”

  
It was then that Lord Varys arrived. He stepped through the door on slippered feet, eyes like a deer, and stared past Tywin. Then he looked up at him, “oh, dear.”

  
The Master of Whispers was a good actor.

Tywin nodded at the scene, “Cersei suspects this was murder.”

  
Varys looked back at the room, “...by the whore?”

  
“By a third party,” he watched as Varys padded across the room, giving a wide berth to the pools of blood, “is that possible?”

  
“Anything is possible, Lord Tywin,” the eunuch frowned down at the king’s body, then turned to Ser Addam who stood behind him, “could you turn him over?”

  
The knight knelt to do as bidden, and when he did so Tywin could see the ruin of Joffrey's throat. The bright steel of the arrowhead gleamed at his throat and his tunic was covered in thick, sticky blood. Tywin doubted they could save the rugs under him. Varys winced as he leaned over the body to look at the arrowhead. Then he stood, and went to the whore, and peered at the arrowhead in her arm, “they are the same arrowhead, Lord Tywin. It seems the king reloaded the bow and went for a drink, and when she escaped she shot him in fright.”

  
“What of those in her body?” Tywin did not know why Pycelle had been meeting with his fellow maesters this early in the day, but as he was flanked by not only the Tyrell maester Lomys, but also by the Stokeworth, Redwyne, and Martell maesters Frenken, Ballabar, and Landyn, he assumed that he had some reason.

  
Varys straightened and took a quick step back, glancing down at his slipper to check if it had been in the blood, “I am not going to tear them out of her, Grand Maester, but if you would like to do so you are welcome to it.”

  
“We will investigate at once!” Pycelle looked up at Tywin, “I am told the queen is quite distraught.”

  
“It does seem odd that an untrained girl could make such a masterful shot,” Maester Landyn mused, “if those arrowheads are different perhaps we should investigate further.”

  
“If they are different, I would agree,” Varys said.

  
“The king dead at the hands of a tortured whore,” Tywin shook his head, “if those arrowheads are different, come to me. Otherwise summon the Silent Sisters to take his body to the sept with the honors a king is due.”

  
“What of Princess Jocelyn?” Maester Lomys asked.

  
“If the arrowheads are the same, then we shall crown her on the morrow. However, if they are different, we will have her locked in Maegor’s Holdfast for her protection while we investigate,” the Reach maesters looked at each other, but Tywin continued, “if you will excuse me, I must find my daughter.”

  
Cersei was not hard to find. Her wailing could be heard from outside of the Tower of the Hand. When Tywin came up the stairs, she was weeping in a chair before his desk while Genna sat behind it. His sister looked up when he opened the door, “I am sending word to Myrcella as well. Your letter to Sansa is there.”

  
It was sitting on the pile of books to the left of the desk. Cersei lifted her head, “while my son was being murdered you were busy writing to Jaime’s wolf-whore to-”

  
“You will not speak of your good-sister in that manner,” Tywin was developing a headache. He was also missing his squire, but he imagined that the poor boy had fled the tower when Cersei arrived, “she has born your brother a heir and is raising his bastard while you started a war.”

  
“Stannis started a war-”

  
“You cut off Eddard Stark’s head-”

  
“Joffrey cut off his head”

  
“You were Joffrey’s regent-”

  
“What was I supposed to do!”

  
Tywin stopped. Arguing with Cersei would get him nowhere. In the silence between them he could hear the scratching of his quill in Genna’s hand as she continued writing. He waited for the sound to stop as she needed more ink before he spoke again, “it should never have come to that. You should have controlled the situation before it came to the steps of the sept. When Stark’s head fell, the North and the Iron Islands would rebel, no matter what Stannis said. Renly never made claims of your children not being Robert’s, he would have risen as well. You started a war.”

  
“And yet Margaery Tyrell is innocent in all of this?”

  
“What do you think she did? She married Joffrey, gave him a daughter, and he tried to murder her.”

  
“If she had not refused to go to him he would have have needed a whore.”

  
“Better for the queen to have murdered the king and us to be at war now because of her death?”

  
Cersei glared, “I want my son.”

  
“Joffrey will be taken to the sept. You may see him there.”

  
“Not Joffrey, Tommen.”

  
“Tommen is Jaime’s page.”

  
“Is Jaime coming to Kings Landing?”

  
“No, Jaime is staying at the Rock. With Tommen. At least until he comes of age to squire at Parchments." 

  
“Then who will rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

  
Tywin was beginning to think that Genna had been right, “Jocelyn Baratheon, First of her Name. She will be crowned on the morrow.”

  
“And wed to Tommen.”

  
“No. Tommen will remain at the Rock. He will wed the Penrose girl and rule the Stormlands.”

  
“Then what is stopping that Highgarden whore from throwing us all out of Kings Landing?”

  
“Politeness?” Genna suggested from her seat, “politics? Peace?”

  
“If you are not bringing Tommen here, I want to go to him.”

  
“You cannot go to the Rock.”

  
“Why not?” Cersei seethed.

  
“Because Jaime tells me that you entertain yourself while his wife was unconscious by stealing her son. I would rather his heir remain alive.”

  
“I would never hurt Jaime’s son!”

  
“Why not? You dislike Sansa and you have killed children before,” Genna noted.

  
“So I cannot go to Tommen and Joffrey is dead. What am I to do?”

  
“I meant for you to remain in Kings Landing and serve as one of the queen’s companions,” Tywin answered, “Queen Margaery will serve as her daughter’s regent and it would advance Lannister influence to have a woman at court with her ear. However, if you insist upon being with your children, I can contact Prince Doran to see if his brother or another Dornish high lord has need of a wife. You can go to Myrcella in Sunspear if it pleases you.”

  
“I will not go to Dorne.”

  
“You may go to Dorne, or you may remain in Kings Landing, or you may even join the Faith if that pleases you, but you will not go to the Rock,” Tywin would have a hundred lords at his door if he were offering his daughter’s hand, but he doubted it would come to that. Cersei drew herself up, out of her chair, likely prepared to make a grand statement about her birth, marriage, and ability to do as she pleased, but before she could a knock came at the door.

  
“The queen for you, Lord Tywin,” the guard called. Cersei took two steps toward the door.

  
“Enter,” Tywin called. Queen Margaery was dressed in a dress of black with dark green embellishment. It had a higher neckline and actual sleeves, but the silver crown that gleamed on her head told a different story. The girl had written her sorrow and her power in her dress. Whatever Cersei had meant to say fell from her lips the moment she saw the queen. She collected herself and stormed past her, hopefully to consider her future.

  
Genna finished her letter with a flourish, “I will leave you to talk,” she said, and left with more grace than Cersei had.

  
Queen Margaery looked up at him with her doe-brown eyes, her voice soft, “it is done, then?”

  
“Yes. The maesters will examine the body, but find nothing amiss. Princess Jocelyn will be crowned on the morrow,” he considered her, “and you?”

  
“I sent word to Starfell for the final arrangements. I doubt the match would be refused,” she stepped around him to the vase on his desk and considered the dead flowers, “I told you to have these thrown out when they were dead.”

  
“How was I to know they were dead?” she eyed the wilted, dry flowers, but said nothing.

  
Then she picked up the vase, “very well, if you are so insistent on flowers I will at least make sure they are alive.”

  
“Have some sent to the sept as well,” Tywin instructed, “the less Cersei worries the better for us all.”

  
The queen looked like she believed that less than his inexperience with flowers, but she did not argue. Instead she opened the door and looked back at him, “thank you for your help, Lord Tywin. I will visit the sept to see him.”

  
Perhaps it would be easier to send Cersei to the Sept with Joffrey. Permanently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't all this 'who's dead and why' suspense wonderful? I've discovered a beautiful plot line for the Jaime/Sansa mid-quel. Just... you're gonna love it. I'm gonna love it. Half the problem is gonna be working on notes instead of writing it.
> 
> Kudos to the guy who translated that Valyrian last chapter. You should all go read it. We've got a dwindling number of chapters so hopefully it'll turn out just right :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Jaime


	61. Kingmaker V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You fail to understand that there are things much worse than death.

Unlike his sisters, Drogon had never been confined to the dragonpit.

That, and a generous amount of meat, had gotten him into the pit. Fire, wings, and sheer force had gotten him out. Arianne had seen the stone door that he had gone through on his way out, the walls were burnt and bloody, the corridors lined with the bodies of Stormcrows and Golden Company men, but he had harmed no one once he was free of the pit. The Unsullied had been frightened, yet unharmed as he escaped.

That had been their cue to invade the pit in force and find whatever had spooked a dragon. The Unsullied were brave men for entering the pit, but no one inside had been a match for them. Intelligent men in both sellsword companies cast aside their weapons and gave up; their less intelligent companions were slaughtered. Those who surrendered had been collected, bound, and marched out of the pit for Daenerys to decide their fate.

Unfortunately for everyone, they never got that far. At some point Jon Connington had been involved in a struggle, perhaps when Drogon escaped, perhaps in the sellswords jostling when the Unsullied arrived, but his shirt had been badly torn. His entire right sleeve was gone. When the man who was escorting him - an Unsullied named White Lion - had discovered that his arm had been taken by greyscale, he had halted the procession, reported to his second-in-command that Connington carried the plague, and plunged his own spear through his neck.

Daenerys had separated them and confined them to rooms in the guest floor. She herself had mounted Drogon and cleansed the inside of the pit with fire, taking special care to burn the flesh off of White Lion’s bones so they could be collected. Hizdahr had taken Rhaego and locked himself inside the queen’s rooms atop the pyramid, Marwyn had locked himself inside his lab, and for now it seemed that Missandei was in charge of the city.

And now Arianne was sitting on her bed, aware that if the dragon queen found herself infected that it would be her fault. When was the last time Daenerys had so much as looked upon Jon Connington, let alone touched him? But Aegon had trained with him only that morning, and she had touched Aegon, and she had touched Daenerys. While her brother and most of the Dornishmen were only held to be certain, she was afraid. Not for herself, but for the queen, and for Aegon, and for her father awaiting her back in Dorne.

Around mid-day, some five hours after Arianne fled back to her room, the door opened. A tray of food and a jug of water were pushed inside by a thin arm, and then the door closed again. Arianne pushed herself off her bed and went to investigate. Missandei had sent fresh fruit and a few dog sausages along with icy water, and Arianne was grateful for that in the heat of the Meereenese sun. Somewhere beyond the city she could hear Drogon’s roar.

On her balcony, Viserion gave no response, but it gave Arianne an idea.

In her supplies from the trip across the Narrow Sea she found a small bag to put the fruit in, and a waterskin large enough to hold the ice along with the water, then put both in a larger pack which she tied about her waist. Then she went to the door. There had been a massive bar available when she moved into the room, but it still lay in it’s place beside the door. It took all her strength to drag it backward and arrange it so she could prop one end in it’s slot, but once she had that side lifted it became much lighter.

She turned to find that Viserion had crawled into the room and lodged her nose under the far end of the bar. Between her hands and the dragon’s strength, they set the bar firmly in place. Arianne pressed her ear to the door, but the Unsullied made no protests. Viserion had gone back to the balcony and when she approached the dragon crouched low so she could find a place amid her spines. The moment she was settled, they were airborne.

Viserion plunged earthward, the stones of the pyramid flying by, and just before they would have crashed into the street her wings caught the air and they arched upward. Below the Meereenese shouted and pointed, but Arianne directed Viserion toward the scent of Drogon near the high walls facing the sea. They found the black wrapped around one of the guard towers over the massive gate, Daenerys sitting on his head and watching the merchants below.

Viserion landed on the other watch tower. The Unsullied had abandoned Drogon’s perch and most of the high wall, but the few who remained jumped at the impact of her landing. One stuck his head out to look up at the dragon, then withdrew. Daenerys stared at her as Arianne produced the waterskin from her bag and took a long drink. The sun was scalding, and when she held out the skin the silver queen reached for it. Satisfied at her welcome, she drew a peach from her bag and held that out as well.

“What are you doing here?” Daenerys asked as she bit into the peach. Arianne drew a sausage from the bag as well and fed it to Viserion. Drogon caught his in mid air with a satisfying _snap_ of his great jaws. Far below a merchant in a litter entered the city. At the gate he was stopped by the Unsullied, who held a long discussion with him before he was allowed in the city.

“I came to find you,” Arianne admitted, “I cannot infect anyone so long as I do not touch them and who would touch me on Viserion’s back?”

“Marwyn says that I do not need to fear,” she curled herself into the space between Drogon’s wing and his back, the shade casting her hair into shadow but making her eyes gleam, “that no dragon hatcher has ever died of the grey plague. Perhaps he is right, there was an outbreak in Lys when Viserys and I were there, but I did not catch it.”

“Are you afraid?”

Daenerys considered her, “not for myself. But if I die, who will control the city? Rhaego is too small to ride Drogon.”

“Hizdahr will,” Arianne answered, “he will make Rhaego the queen you were. Have you told him?”

“About the grey plague? Or about the baby?”

“The baby,” she would hope that someone informed Hizdahr of the greyscale and he had not locked himself away for no reason.

“I had not the chance,” she shook her head, “Grey Worm fears that Connington has already infected the city. He claims that he covered himself with a glove and touched no one, and I have forbidden the Unsullied to kill themselves, but I fear Grey Worm is right.”

Arianne had no answer to that.

Between the peaches and the water, they awaited their fate atop the towers. If they were infected, it would be visible come the new day. Daenerys had few stories she was willing to share of her childhood, and so Arianne kept them entertained with tales from her own. She told the dragon queen of her cousins and her uncle, her father and her brothers, of the water gardens and the desert and all of Dorne. When she had finished speaking of all she could think of they lay in silence watching the stairs.

At long last, in the hour of the owl, Drogon became restless. He picked up his head to scent the wind, and Daenerys hurried to find her seat amid his spines before he took flight. Arianne drove Viserion to follow and off they went across the bay. The great black wheeled above the water again and again, circling near one of the Yunkai’i ships, until he dove straight down, back talons extended, and when he rose up again he had a fish in his claws. On the ship, the men shouted and brought torches, but they were already away. Together, they flew back to the beach.

When the black pinned his catch to the sand and breathed fire into it’s face Arianne could see that it was a massive shark, nearly the size of one of Drogon’s wings. The only good part of seeing such a creature was the relief that it could not swim into the shallows where the smallfolk bathed. Drogon hooked his teeth into the creature’s skin and tore away the entire head, which he cast away from him. In a lurching leap, Viserion bounded after it.

There was driftwood on the beach and Arianne was prepared to make a fire, but Daenerys was satisfied with the charred flesh that Drogon feasted on. When Arianne’s complained she directed him to breath flame on a rock until it was as hot as fire itself and then lay fresh shark-flesh cut with Arianne’s dagger on it, all the while she kept her hands away from Daenerys’. For all the dragon queen’s insistence that they did not _need_ food that was not black and burnt, she joined Arianne in eating it.

Drogon came to sniff at Daenerys when he had finished eating, his blood-soaked muzzle dirtying Arianne’s poor shirt, and then waded into the sea to roll about like a hound puppy in mud. Behind him, Viserion abandoned what remained of the shark’s head and devoured the carcass. She had eaten most of what remained by the time Drogon was done with his bath, but he showed no interest in chasing her off the kill. By the time Arianne had finished eating the dragons had curled themselves into a ball of horns and scales, but their bodies gave off enough heat to make the space between them warm. It was there that they spent the night.

Dawn found them naked with Arianne’s clothes between them. Their feet and fingers bled when pricked with the dagger and neither their eyes nor their companion’s could find any trace of greyscale. They rinsed the sand away and dressed again, and climbed back on the dragons to discover the fate of their friends. At the sight of the pyramid, Drogon arched up, but Arianne landed on her balcony and went to unbar the door.

The hallway was filled with people. She nearly collided with Marwyn as she exited her room, and before she could apologize Quentyn had grabbed her, “are you safe?”

“Yes, what of the others?”

“Gerris is frightened and remains in his room, but Marwyn examined his hand-”

“He is only paranoid,” the maester noted, still directly behind Arianne. He held a jug in his hand that smelt of vinegar.

“Everyone else in our group is fine,” Quentyn finished.

“We are not,” Arianne turned to find that Ashara had approached. Her eyes were red with crying but she wore only a light dress, “Haldon cut off two of his fingers and remains in his room.”

“What of Aegon?” Arianne asked.

“I do not know,” she admitted, “he will not come to the door and I am afraid for him. Is the queen safe?”

“She went to find her daughter,” the meaning was clear enough. When Arianne pushed through the crowd, Quentyn did not follow. Aegon’s door boasted a Targaryen-black banner with a three-headed orange dragon that Arianne had sewn herself. She knocked loudly, “Aegon!”

When there was no reply she tried the door, but it had been barred from the inside. Aegon was strong enough to do so without a dragon to aid him, but that did not sooth her worry. She knocked again, louder, and called for him. Behind her, Marwyn vanished into Garris’ room and the others made for the stairs and food. Quentyn looked back, but Archibald grabbed his arm and badgered him into joining them.

Arianne knocked until her knuckles hurt, then struggled with the handle. At long last, she leaned back against the door and sat on the ground. She smelt of shark and blood and salt, but she did not have the energy to call the maids. Her heavy sigh turned into a sob, and she rested her head against the door behind her.

_“Go to lunch, Arianne.”_

Her eyes darted to the door, and when her ear was pressed against it she thought she could hear breathing, “Aegon?”

“Go down to lunch and find your brother.”

“Open the door!” 

“...go.”

“Aegon, damn you, open the door!” she slammed her fist against the door sharply. How would she explain to her father that she had found and lost Elia's son?

“I can’t do that. You said you were not infected. I had meant to fall on my sword when I heard that, but it seems I’m too much of a coward.”

“Aegon!”

“Do you think that Daenerys would have killed herself if she had been? To save her city and her daughter?”

“You will _not_ hurt yourself, you idiot! You are not _allowed_ to!” she threw her weight against the door, but it did little more than make her shoulder hurt, “Aegon!”

“It’s all right, Arianne.”

“No, it is not! Let me go to Marwyn and see if he can do anything to help!”

“You think he would not have helped everyone else if he could have? All the people who have died of greyscale in all the world?”

“The Red Priests, then, or the Graces,” Arianne pleaded.

“They cannot help.”

“At least let me ask? Please?” she bumped against the door again, not as hard but it still made her shoulder hurt. Aegon was silent for a long moment.

“Go on, then.”

“And you will be here when I return?”

“Arianne-”

“Promise me! Promise, or I will have Viserion tunnel through your wall and drag you out.”

“I do not think Daenerys would be happy if you did that.”

“Do you think I will not?”

She could sense him shaking his head in the dark room behind her, “go on. I will wait.”

“Good. The least you could do is say goodbye to Ser Jon before doing something stupid.”

“...Jon’s alive?”

“He’s locked in a cell, but he is alive,” Arianne agreed. She had heard Daenerys command it herself, “then you will wait?”

“Yes, but I want to see Jon before anything is done with him.”

“Fine. Stay alive long enough for me to see what can be done, and I will bring you your knight. Is it a deal?”

“Yes.”

“You do know that the Dornish do not take broken promises lightly?”

“I remember what happened the last time a Targaryen lied to Dorne, yes.”

“Aegon…”

“Go on, princess, I will be here when you decide.”

Arianne looked back as she left, but the gloom of the hall held no answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, lied about the Jaime thing. Kinda needed a new Tywin chapter and things got moved around. So...Arianne!
> 
> I do love all the reactions to Joffrey's death, from dancing in the streets to thinking of poor Jayde it really gives me time to take a step back and look at the plot and make sure it's working.
> 
> Next Chapter: Jaime (swearsies). We have two more Jaime, Tyrion, Tywin, and Sansa chapters, three more in Meereen, and three more in Winterfell so we're on a pretty tight schedule now :)


	62. Kingslayer IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that one was half a horse herself...

3/16/301

The letter had arrived around sunhigh.

He had read it once when the apologetic maester arrived, and again before he turned it over to Tyrion. Their lord father’s words had arrived that morning on a different raven, but where his words had been flat and measured, Cersei’s were fevered and accusing. His brother took one look at it and shook his head slowly, “you would do well to burn this,” he counseled, “she accuses Queen Margaery of treason and murder, claims that our lord father is an old, blind fool, and all but reveals the nature of why she sends for you.”

“You do not think I should go, then,” Jaime was not even certain that he thought he should go. 

Tyrion rubbed at the side of his nose, “what can you do? Ride in at the head of an army only to be turned around at the gates by father?”

“I could send for her, say that Sansa wanted her at the Rock.”

“And then he would  _ ask _ Sansa and Sansa would say that she wants Cersei as far away from her as possible. I expect that Sansa would see Cersei wed to Roose Bolton or Oberyn Martell or the Sealord of Braavos before gladly allowing her into Casterly Rock,” Tyrion frowned up at him. For once, it was Jaime who poured himself wine, his brother waving him off at the offer, “your wife is a kind person. She might set aside all that Cersei has done and welcome her gladly if Cersei’s first reaction in arriving at the Rock last time had not been an attempt to bully her from her position. A position, I would remind you, that Sansa has done so well in that she has been corresponding with father on a weekly basis.”

Jaime leaned back in his seat and considered that. Even if Tywin did allow Cersei to come to him it was likely that his sister would be her own worst enemy. Sansa was patient indeed, but, as he had already observed, Cersei did not know when to stop. When he had taken Jerion from her she had spent the rest of the night complaining that she felt unwanted and disrespected, failing to understand both the irony of such a statement and the danger that she had put them all in. 

Tommen was nine. There was no reason that Cersei should be producing milk. Had a serving girl or a maester wandered in rather than Tyrion they would have had more problems than might be fixed. Granted, he suspected that Cersei would simply have the witness murdered, as she had Lollys and the midwife. Jaime still felt guilty every time he thought of it. By all accounts, Sansa had gifted a sept-full of flowers for Lollys’ arrival in Kings Landing, via the Tyrell Queen, but flowers and a bastard son did little to comfort the girl’s distraught mother.

“I cannot let her remain alone in Kings Landing,” he said at last.

“She is not alone,” Tyrion reminded, “she has Genna and father, the queen and her own ladies as well. Cersei lived in Kings Landing for a decade, it is not your fault if she made no friends during that time.”

“I did not say it is my fault.”

“His brother shook his head in near disbelief, “Jaime you are acting a fool. You intend to bring Cersei back to the Rock, furthering the rumors and likely ruining Tommen for his squiring, and when Sansa has had enough and goes to father blaming Cersei for her lack of children, what do you think will happen? If you are lucky, father will send Cersei to the Silent Sisters and lock you in the Rock until you have a dozen blond babes.”

“Sansa can still have children with Cersei in the Rock.”

“Provided she does not continue stealing them away the moment Sansa is distracted and begin suffocating them in their sleep.”

“Cersei would not do that!”

“Are you certain? She did it to Robert’s twins, and to Lollys and her midwife.”

Jaime was not certain, “she would not harm my sons.”

“Son. If Cersei comes to stay I suspect it will remain singular.”

“What is stopping Sansa from having children while Cersei is at the Rock?”

“Fear? Dignity?”

“I will control Cersei-”

“Father and Robert combined could not control Cersei-”

“-and Sansa can have as many sons as she pleases-”

“So, one, because I also said dignity-”

“She must understand the need for more than one child-”

“Are you saying that you intend to rape your wife while keeping Cersei in your bed?”

“It is not rape-”

“She does not want it and you do it anyway, what do you call it? When Robert did it to Cersei she called it rape,” Tyrion gently tossed the letter back onto Jaime’s desk, where it glided across to him, “aside from that, father might have objections as well.”

“I have never thought of Tywin Lannister as a champion of woman.”

“Women? No, but a sobbing Stark will win him no favors in the North. You think these Northerners will accept a Lannister son without the daughter of Eddard Stark to speak for him? And you think Sansa will speak for him if you traumatize her?”

“I would not harm Sansa.”

“Jaime, have you heard yourself these last few minutes? You are suggesting that you hurt your wife for Cersei’s sake and when I point out that hurting Sansa would hurt Sansa you say you will not hurt her. Burn the letter. Let Cersei stay in Kings Landing and help rule or go to Dorne with Myrcella. This is the life she chose.”

“She had no choice in marrying Robert.”

“Yet she had a choice in raising her sons. If she had fostered Joffrey at the proper age to Eddard Stark or Jon Arryn or Stannis Baratheon or even our own lord father he would not have been the king he was. He would not now be dead and perhaps our lord father would be more concerned if he was. The best thing you can do for Tommen is to keep him away from Cersei, least he turn out like Joffrey.”

“To protect my  _ sons _ ,” Jaime said. Which sons he did not know. Robert’s dead blond son? Jaime’s timid white-blond squire? The black-haired bastard, both his and Cersei’s yet neither all the same? Or the little babe with Sansa’s hair and his eyes, the son that most belonged to him out of all of them? For many years he had thought himself wed to Cersei in body and mind, Robert and Tywin the only thing stopping them from being one soul, but when at last they could be together Cersei married him off instead. 

“If you do not, who will?”

The answer on his lips was that Sansa would, as she had claimed Robert for herself and spent many hours worrying over Tommen’s armor, health, and general shyness. She was the reason that he now had a Brax and a Lefford page to keep Tommen company. Jaime doubted that he needed three pages, but had decided that putting up with them was worth keeping Sansa and Tyrion happy. Yet he realized that such an answer would only give Tyrion ammunition, and Jaime was already losing the argument. 

He was saved by the knock at the door.

Sansa was still dressed in the red gown that she had worn to greet Obella Martell. It was a gown almost violently Lannister, with lions in white thread and little golden dragonfly clasps, and it suited Sansa’s auburn hair, “Jaime, Tyrion,” she said, with a bright smile on her face, “Lady Obella wants to go hawking. Won’t you come?”

His brother pushed himself out of his seat, “is Myrielle hawking?”

“She excused herself to my sitting rooms,” Sansa answered, “if you mean to distract her you would be doing me a service. I half expect to return to a new harvest plan.”

Tyrion laughed, “I will attempt it.”

“And you, Jaime?”

“I like hawking,” he agreed. Really, he would like anything that would let him escape Tyrion’s accusations, “I will come with you.”

“You will go. Meet us in the courtyard,” she directed, “I must change out of this dress.”

Jaime waited until she left to tuck Cersei’s letter into his pocket and venture out of the keep to the courtyard. It was a warm day, and although he had never been there he doubted that it was half as hot as Dorne could be.

Obella Sand was six months younger than Sansa; she had a flat chest and large eyebrows,her hair was wild with the wind yet retained a certain beauty, and had one not met Oberyn they might say that she looked like her mother. She did not. Her nose was sharp, as were her eyes and the black widow’s peak of her hair, her skin was salty olive, and although she was dressed in the yellow of House Uller the orange of the Martells gleamed in her painted linen skirts. When he came down the stairs she was mounted on a magnificent dappled grey sand steed with a tail that had been dyed in the yellow and orange and drowned red of sunset. She was one of the most beautiful horses Jaime had ever seen, and she was a hedge knight’s rounsey compared to the blood bay stallion that Prince Doran had gifted Sansa.

Said stallion waited beside Jaime’s own white palfrey, poor Tommen holding both of them as the high-spirited stallion started, and when Jaime was astride Obella nudged her mare nearer, “Ser Jaime, we had not thought you would join us.” Behind her Roslin Rosby and Ysilla Royce frowned from their own bays. The Royce girl turned to speak to her Shett handmaiden, and little Lorra Penrose rode up beside them to listen imperiously. 

“Why not? Even lions enjoy hawking occasionally. I would imagine that spears do well at hawking?”

“I am not a spear, Ser Jaime, I am a sand.”

“Does your lord uncle mean to find you a husband among the Westermen?” Roslin asked. Beside her Ysilla smirked, but Obella merely blinked at her.

“You think of my cousin Arianne, not me,” she replied simply, with a smile to rival her father’s, “my mother was a bastard of Hellholt, and I am a bastard of Sunspear. What noble lord would marry me? I will not be traded off to secure a man’s loyalty or to buy his armies. No, I will marry who I want to marry, when I want to marry.”

Ysilla bristled sharply and Roslin flushed, but neither argued. Jaime reined his eager mare around, amused at the girl’s stubborn reply, “I understand sand can blind the hawks, Lady Obella.”

“As can snow. But my sisters and I have always loved the hunt. Elia and Nymeria fox hunt, and Obara loves to hunt boar. I, however, will stick to hawking.”

“You are not arguing already?” Sansa was dressed in a lighter gown, a slip of golden silk with a white kirtle underneath. Obella, like everyone else, watched the direwolf and lion cub that had come with Sansa, “I had hoped to save that for after the hunt, at least.”

“Only talking, Lady Sansa,” Obella assured her, but she stilled as Sansa approached the stallion.

Tommen still struggled to hold him as the other horses pranced in the courtyard. Sansa caught his reins and lifted her hand to touch his beautifully tapered head. His coat and mane and tail were a beautiful shade of red, his legs the proper black of a bay, his hooves tiny and pale-tan, and the eyes he fixed on Sansa were dark and lovely and intelligent. He jerked his head and Jaime almost called out for her to be careful, to get away, for the squires to fetch a new mount, but he had not the chance. Sansa rested her hand on his head and looked into his black eyes, and then she was up in the Dornish saddle, his lean body gliding rather than trotting, and when she brought him back around there was something different in Obella.

“He is a beautiful horse,” Sansa said, “what is his name?”

“He is a stallion bred of Qorgyle and Martell stock, one of the finest in my father’s stables, well trained and well kept, but no man took him as his own. You may name him, Lady Sansa, he has no name.”

“I must name him for the fire of his coat,” Sansa mused. She leaned down to pet the stallion’s fur.

“You should name him Syrax,” Roslin said eagerly, “for the dragon.”

“Or Torrhen,” Ysilla Royce’s dark bay gelding seemed nervous around the stallion, “for your Stark king.”

“Or Alys for Queen Alysanne. She was a dragonrider,” said Lorra Penrose, her paint sniffed at the stallion, but did not draw back with his head turned to examine her.

Joy nudged her chestnut closer, “call him Starfyre, Sansa, for Queen Nymeria’s star and for his flames. It’s only fitting.”

“Nymeria’s star burns bright,” Obella noted, “it is a good name for a Dornish horse.”

“Starfyre he shall be,” Sansa firmly pet his neck, “we will have to breed him to a destrier mare, their foals would be warhorses suited for a king.”

Obella’s laugh was like the ring of bells in the wind, but it carried something of Oberyn in it too, some of his dry wit, “let us see if he can run, then.”

He could. 

Starfyre twice beat Jaime’s mare - one of the swiftest in the stables - to the prey by five horse-lengths. The third time she easily outran Obella by jumping a stream while Obella took the bridge, but each time she beat the grey as well and each time Sansa swore that she was a poor rider. They caught three rabbits, all of which Lady brought to him in a gentle mouth, all neatly killed. 

They returned to the Rock as the sun set, covered in grass and leaves and smelling of horse. 

Jaime helped his little wife from her saddle, noting that so long as Sansa stayed with him the stallion was well-behaved, but when she stepped down he near nipped a squire. Jaime did not think she noticed, but he did. The little Stark inspired a loyalty that few others did, that of Lannisters and Rosbys, Penroses and Royces alike. That of direwolves pups and lion cubs and wild Dornish stallions.

Late that night, naked in a room lit only by the flames, Jaime burned the letter. Behind him, his little wife lifted her head from the tangle of red sheets to call for him, and as the parchment burned he went back to her. When she was snuggled against his chest he could see the light of the fire flickering over their son’s Tully hair as the babe slept. He pressed a kiss to his wife’s head and lowered himself back down beside her as the words turned to smoke in the hearth.

Sansa had earned more loyalty than she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you were all mad :) about the lack of a Jaime chapter last time (blame the muse!), but I was caught up in some research before I could finish it. Here we are! Sorry for the delay!
> 
> For the record, I pictured Jaime’s mare an Andalusian and the sand steeds as Arabians. (Not to mention Obella:  
> https://charahub.com/character/1109949/Obella-Sand/public/)
> 
> All the talk about Ashara and Aerys has made me want to write more Dany! So close to the ending I try to write the chapters when the mood strike me for them, I wouldn't want to mess up when we're almost there!
> 
> Next Chapter: Winterfell! (we're closing POVs, it's so sad!!)


	63. Lady Stark XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother always knows best...

9/9/301

Catelyn had attempted to convince Jeyne to send the child away five times.

The first time had been in the days before he was born, when Jeyne herself had lost her babe and Catelyn had thought she feared as much for her position as she herself would have. That Robb had brought a woman carrying his bastard brother’s bastard into Winterfell was unacceptable. Not only a threat to the Stark line, that child was also a threat to lives of Jeyne’s trueborn sons. When she came to the girl’s rooms to suggest that they go to Robb together she had been turned away by the wide-eyed Westerling.

_I cannot command my lord husband to turn away his brother’s child._

She had come the second time once the babe was born, had intended to use the infant’s gender and strength to convince Jeyne to reject the child, how many wars and deaths had been caused by a bastard child raised beside trueborn siblings? By now Jeyne had moved the babe into her rooms, found a Flint wet nurse and given to Jon's babe all the honors which should have belonged to her children. This time the Westerlands girl had refused more firmly.

_The babe has done nothing, let a bond form with her trueborn cousins and they will not be harmed._

Thrice she had come gently, but now Catelyn became more clever in her approach. She waited until the infant was colicky and news of the poor Umber harvest had come to climb the stairs to Jeyne’s sitting room and lunch with her. Tired and with work at hand, Jeyne was still stubborn. The girl had told Robb of her last attempt, and so Catelyn was wary of another poor reaction. As it was, she had set down her tea and left the rib she had been eating on the table as she stood.

_I told you I will not speak of this. Forgive me, Lady Catelyn, there is much to be done._

When she went to Jeyne the fourth time she had not been so gentle. Robb was dead and still the babe slept in the nursery belonging to his sons. She had cornered Jeyne early in the morning, before she even had a chance to see the source of their argument. The black dress did nothing to brighten the girl’s dark features, neither did the woolen pants she had donned under it, but when Catelyn had remarked that it was traditional to foster children out the slip of a girl had shown surprising strength as she fled past her with a violent shove, forcing Catelyn out of the doorway in her anger.

_When they are seven or eight, yes, and until then they remain at their father’s home!_

Right now, Jeyne’s screams could be heard down the corridor. Catelyn had avoided her most of the day, waiting for the right time to discuss it. Once the girl’s pain could be heard from her own rooms, she collected Brienne and ventured down the hall.

She found Jeyne in Robb’s bedroom. Beth Cassel had found a midwife, and the woman was currently harassing the girl into walking about the room. The maesters had always insisted that Catelyn stay still once her contractions started, but it was hardly worth arguing over that.. Arya was hanging a pot of water above the fireplace and Eleyna was stripping the sheets from the bed, but Catelyn ignored all of them.

Jeyne wore only a chemise as she looked out the window, her hair was blonde in the light rather than chestnut, and Catelyn could not help but wonder if her sister was anything like Lysa had been. They were of a similar age, and where Jeyne’s hair had her father’s gold, Eleyna’s was as dark as their mother’s had been. Granted, Eleyna also had the fair skin and green eyes of a Westerlander, while her sister had brown skin and hair alike.

How often Catelyn had prayed for a son who looked like his father.

“Where is Maester Medrick?”

“In his quarters or the rookery, I presume,” Jeyne managed.

“It seems that your babe is ready?

“Yes. Beth found the midwife in Wintertown.”

“And sent the maester away?”

“I would rather have a midwife.”

“All of my babes were delivered with a maester.”

“And Lord Eddard and Lord Brandon and Lady Lyanna by a midwife.”

“You would put Robb’s son at risk for this?”

“Are you claiming that your ways are better than the ancient ways of the North, Lady Catelyn?”

“No more than you are saying that there is something wrong with listening to learned men.”

“If anything goes wrong with the birth and the babe dies, the death of the last of the Starks is on your head.”

Jeyne hesitated, but said, “would that not make Arya the last of the Starks?”

“The last of the _male_ Starks.”

“I was not aware you knew my babe would be a boy. Tell me, Lady Catelyn, what woods witch did you speak with?”

The implications made Catelyn bristle, but she forced herself to be calm, “i prayed to the gods.”

“Perhaps they did not hear you, it seems they listen little enough.”

“You invite their anger. Why would the Mother listen to you at all if you spoke such in front of her?”

“I do not pray to the Mother,” Jeyne replied, “I hold to the gods of the North now, the gods of the weirwood and the forests, the gods of your lord husband and mine. They gave me a king for a husband and a direwolf for a protector, and now they have granted me a living child.”

Her face contorted as another contraction rippled through her, but the midwife hardly paused in her work. Catelyn seized the chance, “old gods or new, the wisdom they have gifted to men should hardly be ignored. The babe will be safest with both a maester and a midwife.”

“Summon one, then, if you are so very desperate,” Jeyne nearly snapped, “I suppose he could do no harm to my baby.”

“Brienne, go and get him,” Catelyn ordered. The woman turned to do as she was bid, but Catelyn was not done. She had not come to insist that Jeyne listen to common sense, “I wish to speak with you on another matter as well.”

“This is not the best time.”

“Now that you have brought your babe to term, you must decide what to do with the bastard-”

Catelyn had not come without a plan. She had meant to suggest that the babe be sent to foster in White Harbor after the current storm was over. It was a good distance from Winterfell and the Manderlys were known to treat their bastards well. Not as well as some Northern houses, admittedly, but better than nearly all southron ones. Furthermore, White Harbor contained a sept. The child could be sent there once it was of an age, and that would ensure the safety of Robb’s son. If Jon Snow’s bastard could be sent to the Wall, she would have asked for that as well, but she doubted that Jeyne would agree to that now or in the days to come.

Yet she never had the chance to suggest any of this. Jeyne, the delicate little southron girl with a round belly snatched the glass of water off the windowsill and threw it at her. The girl was heavily pregnant and in great pain, and so the glass shattered at her feet rather than hitting her. Catelyn took a stunned step back as she screamed, “be silent you foolish, cruel woman! Get out! Out!”

“You cannot-” she could.

One guard came up to beseech her, but the midwife grabbed her shoulder sharply and growled, “you must leave, you put the babe at risk!”

Jeyne’s brother was approaching, one hand on his sword and the other reaching for her other shoulder, and Catelyn lifted her head and stepped out before a swordfight could begin at her grandchild’s birth.

Yet the excitement of the day was not over. She had failed at one of her goals, but she would not fail at both. She had waited for Jeyne to give birth for many months; it had given her more than enough time to plan.

Catelyn tugged her cloak around her and descended the great staircase to find those who had been Robb’s bannermen. She found Roose Bolton and Barbrey Dustin on the stairs above the training yard, and although they quieted ather arrival the lady had been laughing. Why Barbrey had never simply married Roose herself, to give him sons and take her sister’s title as Lady of the Dreadfort, and given the title of Lord Dustin to the nephew to whom it rightfully belonged Catelyn did not know. These Northerners were a strange people.

“Lady Catelyn,” Barbrey greeted her with a smile broad enough to make up for Lord Roose’s lack of one, “have you come to watch my grand-nephews attempts to impress Lady Alys?”

“I fear I do not have the time, Lady Barbrey. I have come to speak to Lord Bolton,” Catelyn thought she could hear Jeyne’s screams even here, but that was only a trick of her mind.

Roose nodded, “you are welcome to speak here, if it pleases you.”

It did not, but in half an hour the Dustins and Ryswells and half the North would know, so she smiled instead of saying such. The grey cloak of wolf fur was heavy on her shoulders, she was a Stark, Lord Eddard’s wife, mother to Arya and Robb. Her skirts were the deep, rich blue of the Tullys, and the colors mingled beautifully where they met on her shoulders, “I wish to offer you the hand of my daughter Arya.”

Both paused. Barbrey looked up to Roose, uncertain, but if he was he did not show it. He paused a moment, then said, “it was my understanding that Lady Jeyne meant to wait several years before betrothing her good-sister.”

“I will worry about Jeyne,” the girl could hardly protest now. By the time she was able to the news would have swept through the North, from the Wall to White Harbor, and refusing the Lord of the Dreadfort his promised prize might incite a revolt. Jeyne was a fool to not have arranged Arya a good betrothal, but at least she had not sold the girl off to some minor lord. This marriage would secure the loyalties of the Boltons and their allies, would keep Robb’s son safe, “and do not misunderstand me, Lord Roose, this is not a marriage that will happen tomorrow. You will be betrothed to Arya until she comes to a proper age to me married.”

“Has the girl flowered?” Barbrey asked.

“No. She is two and ten, she has a year or two yet. I had hoped that a marriage could be arranged near her fifteenth birthday. Arya is a willful child, I wish to give her time to mature,” in truth, she half expected Roose to return his bride to them if Arya did not act like a lady should.

“A true daughter of the North, then,” Roose’s voice held no emotion, but she suspected that she had never seen him smile in truth before, “much like her aunt Lyanna. I had hoped to marry Domeric to her, once. You need not fear that I will harm the girl. She may swordfight and ride and hunt as she pleases so long as she does not risk her life or that of our children.”

“And there is the matter of the babe that is yet unborn,” Barbrey said, when Catelyn had no words to answer with, “if it is a boy he would do well to marry a Northern cousin, but if it a girl she needs a betrothal, least Lord Tywin find one for her. A Bolton cousin by Lady Arya would suit well.”

“Perhaps in only a year, then,” Catelyn allowed, “just after she flowers, but no sooner. My father’s maester said it was dangerous for a girl to birth her first babe before she was fifteen.”

“Starks are strong,” Barbrey argued, although she did not throw her weight behind it, “your own Sansa had a babe only this year. She is young as well.”

“Sansa is fifteen,” Catelyn noted, “if the Lannisters make overtures to a marriage, perhaps in a year, as I said, but no sooner.”

“What would I do with a wife who has not flowered?” Roose interjected before Barbrey could continue, “we can announce the betrothal now and wed later. I will find a gift for the girl, a horse or a dagger, something she will enjoy, perhaps it will make her more willing to accept the match.”

Catelyn had half expected Roose to insist the wedding take place now and only the bedding be put off. Jeyne would argue, but what could they do? They needed the Boltons. Lady Barbrey did not look pleased, but if neither of them were happy perhaps that was a success. Arya would be the lady of a great house, and her husband’s men would add to her nephew’s claim. If he was true to his word and not merely lying to gain Catelyn’s favor, perhaps Arya could even come to love him.

“I must go back to Jeyne,” she said, “Robb’s babe will be born within hours and I must be there to see him. Forgive me, Lord Roose, Lady Barbrey.” As she retreated she could hear Barbrey’s demanding, hushed tone, but she did not turn back. She must go to the sept, to give one last prayer for a son. For the Father to allow the babe to take justice in Robb's name, for the Mother to be merciful and grant Robb a son, for the Crone to open Jeyne's eyes. Then she must go back Robb’s rooms to wait for the birth.

It would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel very sorry for Cat here. I would feel more sorry if I didn't know what she'd just done, but she's doing the very best she can based on her knowledge and experience. She, like Jeyne, is trying to align her knowledge of southern politics with Northern politics and that isn't a good idea. But Cat feels like she's all alone and can't trust anyone to fix this. She's lost both her baby sons, her husband, and Robb, and now no one is left to fix things so she must do it herself.
> 
> I do like all the observations on the last chapter. Jaime and Cersei were a package deal when we started this fic and now they are slowly being pulled apart by their own actions. They are two different people, and between Jaime's incoming realization that their values vary wildly and Cersei's view of him as an extension of her rather than as equals it's starting to unravel. 
> 
> Also: I set up a Charahub to keep everyone straight in my head. If anyone wants access I can clean up the spoilers and link it.
> 
> Next Chapter: Tyrion (feat. Myrielle)


	64. The Imp VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For imps like me...

The morning dawned bright and cool and too early.

Podrick and Josmyn were already awake when he rolled out of bed, a bath drawn and a heavy Lannister cloak laid out. Podrick was polishing his shoes while Josmyn examined his red tunic carefully. Tyrion had the patience for none of that, so he climbed into the bath lest he fall back in bed. He had managed to locate pants and an undershirt before his brother arrived.

Jaime looked as if he had been the one dragged out of bed before sunrise, bright and far too eager to see his dwarf brother, “what, little brother, you are not ready yet? Sansa was up hours ago and buzzing about your bride’s rooms.”

“I will be ready in a moment,” he replied, exhausted already, and glowered at Podrick as the boy came to help secure the tunic while Tyrion adjusted the rings on his fingers, “do you have nothing better to do than block my door?”

“I am to escort you to one of the lower dining rooms so that your lady and mine have time to dress and enjoy the bride’s presents. Afterward I will escort you to the sept,” the Rock was so large that it had two, one within the general Lannister rooms and another, much larger, one beside the keep itself. Tyrion rarely visited either, but he had little choice today.

When he exited his room, he could hear the laughter of women. Jaime would have brought wine with the food, but he doubted that Myrielle would like to kiss him if he smelt of it. Instead he ate the olives and cheese in it’s place and commanded the wine removed from him. Once he had eaten a bit, he felt better. That was good. He would not want to have to change out of this tunic, after all the effort that had gone into making it, it was enough embarrassment to be a dwarf.

“Sansa tells me that father means to send Robert to the Citadel when he is old enough,” Jaime was musing across from him. For Sansa’s sake, Tyrion was glad that he had come to his senses these past few weeks. His brother had gone back to the training yard - with Tommen in tow, this time - and reported Cersei’s letter to their father. Tyrion did not know what had been said between Sansa and Tywin, but if any further letters had reached the Rock it had not reached his ears, “but I do worry about the boy. Jerion will be a page for the Leffords for several years before he leaves, he may wish to have joined him.”

Tyrion suspected that the boy was lucky he was not being sent to the Wall instead. Their father must have been furious to hear that his golden son had slept with some serving maid and gotten a son on her. It must have been Sansa who wrote to him of Robert, for the first letter that reached the Rock mentioning the boy had commanded him to be turned over to her custody and prepared for a life at the Citadel. Whatever Sansa had said, it had moved Tywin more than anything Tyrion had ever done.

It was nearing sunhigh when one of Jaime’s pages appeared. The boy carried a little box bound in paper, and Jaime lifted it out of his hands to place it before Tyrion, “here, these are for you.”

“What are they?” Jaime gave no answer, but when Tyrion opened them he wondered if his brother had meant them as a jape. The five books within the paper were worth more than the loan given to him to rebuild Castamere. One by one, he turned them over, and then gently lay them on the table where they could not be damaged. When he looked up at Jaime, his brother grinned at him.

“Half the kingdom sent Myrielle a gift, so I thought it only fitting.”

“Which half?”

“The Tyrell-Lannister part, the Riverlands, and Dorne,” Tyrion paused at that.

“Dorne?”

“Obella Sand had a golden sand steed as well.”

“And Myrielle accepted it?”

“According to Sansa. She might start a breeding program with Sansa’s stallion, but Myrielle has officially accepted the horse, yes.”

Perhaps she would be as tired of these ceremonies as he was. Well, it was Myrielle who was marrying the dwarf, not he, so she might very well be throwing herself out a window even now. Tyrion wanted nothing more than to read the books, but he had no time for that. He must be at the sept within the hour. Instead he carefully collected them, “I must take these upstairs.”

“Have a squire do it.”

“I must collect my cloak as well,” Tyrion replied, “wait for me in the courtyard, I will be down in a moment.”

“If you lock yourself in your rooms I will never forgive you,” Jaime declared, but he went anyway. Tyrion may be a dwarf but he was not incompetent, he let his squires go as well. The stairs were not so long, but by the time he reached the top his legs were aching. At Myrielle’s end of the hall, the door opened and Joy appeared, dressed in a blue gown with gold embellishment. She stared at him, but Tyrion only opened his door and stepped inside.

He carried the books to his desk and gently placed them there, nudging them back from the edge to ensure their safety. Only then did he venture to his bed where his cloak lay. It was a beautiful thing of Lannister red-and-gold, given to him by Jaime, who had used it for his wedding to Sansa. It had been their mother’s, once, and Cersei’s too. It was too large for him by half, but he could carry it to the sept and it would suit his lady wife once it was around her shoulders. He reached to take it off the bed.

Tyrion’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, “yes?”

It was Jaime that he expected, but Sansa who entered the room. She was dressed in a gown of Lannister gold, accented by white, and if Myrielle was half as beautiful as she he would never look twice at another woman. Sansa carried a blanket of silver with her and when she had closed the door behind her she smiled, “Ysilla was afraid you would see your bride, so I have come to insure you do not. And to give you this.”

“What is that?” She unfurled it. A cloak of silver bearing a red lion, Tyrion took it when she offered it to him, stunned at the thing’s very existence, but managed, “what is this?”

“A wedding cloak. I believe the sigil is that of House Reyne. That is what Myrielle told me, at least. She sewed it herself,” she folded her hands in front of her and waited.

Yes, she had sewn it herself. Tyrion could see it in the practicality of the little stitches, in the arc of the embroidered lion, in the creature’s golden eyes. This was Myrielle’s work, too plain for Sansa and too neat for Joy, and too rare for a maid to have constructed it, “she means me to cloak her in this? What would father say?”

“I know she wrote to him about it, but I do not know what he said. I did not think it my place to ask,” Sansa admitted. A knock came at the door, and Sansa glanced back before lifting her skirts to kneel beside him. She pressed a kiss to the unscarred side of his face and stood again, before he could reply, “I wish you a happy wedding day, Tyrion, for you and for Myrielle. Be kind to her.”

With that she was gone, and he was alone again. He collected the silver cloak, gently lay the linen overtop it to prevent it from becoming dusty on the ride, and ventured back down the stairs. In the courtyard, Jaime awaited him with a flightly golden mare bearing his saddle. His brother was laughing with Daven when he came down the steps, but when he saw Tyrion he called, “look, Myrielle has sent you a gift as well!”

She seemed as wild as Sansa’s stallion, but Tyrion could hardly turn her down. He pet her head and climbed into her saddle, and gave Jaime the cloak for safekeeping. If she meant to throw him, at least that would remain clean. By the time they arrived to the sept they had come to an agreement. The mare would tolerate him, and he would prevent the lion who had come to walk with Jaime from coming too close to her. Knight, who could hardly be called a cub anymore, seemed oblivious to the conflict he was causing. His mane was just starting to grow in and he liked to amuse himself by chasing the tails of horses. Jaime’s mare did not mind quite so much, but the golden mare was frightened of him.

The lion only left when they had arrived at the sept, and it seemed he took Jaime with him. Tyrion took the cloak and climbed the stairs, the eyes of the entire sept on him, and waited for the septon to begin his speech. He was hardly listening to the words, only stood where he must stand and waited. Back in Kings Landing he had seen Sansa’s face when she entered the sept to be married. If Myrielle looked anything like that he meant to call it off altogether, and damn the Lannister pride.

At long last the septon finished his prayers and the doors opened. Myrielle wore a gown of white samite and cloth-of-silver, lined with silvery satin. A gown fit for the heiress to Castamere. The points of the long dagged sleeves near touched the ground as she walked, but they hid her hands and he suspect that that had been the point. The skirts were long and full, the waist tight, and the bride’s cloak she wore was the gold of Casterly Rock. 

Then he looked into her face, and saw her smile, and found himself smiling back.

That was how the ceremony passed. They did all that was required, Tyrion deliberately and Myrielle in a way that suggested she had practiced since the moment she knew what marriage was. Candles were lit, prayers and vows were said, and when Myrielle lifted her voice to sing he found himself singing with her. His voice was not near so pretty as hers, he faltered, but when she heard she looked down at him and smiled, and Tyrion felt less a fool.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Stafford was dead, but Daven was there in an instant. Her brother opened the clasp at her neck, collected the cloak in his other hand, and stepped away. Tyrion unfurled the cloak, and an unconscious gasp rippled through the sept. Ignoring them all, he stepped around behind Myrielle. He had no idea how he would fix the clasp, but when he raised the cloak his bride knelt, and he draped her in the silver and red of the Reynes. As he stepped back into his place he could see the crowd was alarmed, whispering to each other.

"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

The septon knew. When he reached out to wrap their clasped hands in a ribbon it was one of silver. Tyrion had known the words since birth, had said them once before, but looking into Myrielle’s face he stumbled over them, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger-” he could not hear her, only himself, and he prayed to whatever gods were watching that he was not making a fool of himself, “-I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

He had heard Tysha. 

Myrielle knelt again, so their faces were level. She was a creature of beauty, her eyes bright emerald, her hair spun gold, and every stitch of that gown had been made by Sansa. He could see it in the embroidery, and the Stark’s flair did nothing to subtract from her beauty. What must she think of him? The gods had done him no favors in birth, and the sword that had taken his nose had done the rest. 

His hands reached up to touch the sides of her face, and then she was kissing him, “with this kiss, I pledge my love and take you as my lord and husband.”

When he added pressure to his fingers she came back, and he forced out the words, his voice hoarse, “with this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you as my lady and wife.””

The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he said, "I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Myrielle of House Lannister to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

Myrielle kept his hand as she stood, and when they turned he feared for an instant that they would not care to applaud. But then Sansa was out of her seat and so was Jaime, and then Dorna and Tommen, and at the apex of the noise Knight added his voice as well. It seemed the entirety of the sept loved that, a true roar at a wedding of lions, and they carried on again. When he looked up to see his bride she was waving out at the audience with a smile as if she had married Jaime and not his dwarf brother.

The next day, Tyrion would remember little of the feast.

He could not dance, but Myrielle did not care, and after she had robbed him of his wine she dragged him into the floor to do so. She was short enough to manage it, but most of the other women were not, and by the time he found himself dancing with Sansa - who was a foot and a half taller than he - he was done with dancing. Jaime’s wife laughed as she snuck him back to the dais, but she did it nonetheless.

Eventually, someone - Hobber Redwyne, he thought - was drunk enough to climb out of their seat and call for the bedding. Myrielle had long since sat back down to gossip with Sansa and eat, but she tensed when he shouted. The rest of the hall thought it a fine idea, but before Tyrion could do anything about it Sansa herself had seized him and was attempting to unbutton his tunic. Jaime laughed loudly behind him, but he gripped her hand and protested, “Myrielle-”

“Will be fine, sweet brother,” she teased, “I have made sure of it.”

He was not sure he believed her, but before he could say anything else a roar shook the hall. Searching the hall for Myrielle, he found that Knight had pinned Ser Hobber to the floor and was now sniffing him carefully. His lady wife stepped around the knight and, with a direwolf at her heels, escaped from the hall unscathed. 

Tyrion was not so lucky. By the time he was refocused on himself, Sansa had undone his tunic. Dorna had taken her cue from her lady and snuck up on him to join Sansa. Jaime was laughing too hard to do anything, nevermind stop them, and Tyrion fled to the bedding room with far more women than he had expected fighting over his clothes. On his last look back before closing the door, Sansa had snagged a boot and Dorna and Desmera were arguing over his undershirt. 

The door shut with a reassuring  _ click _ and he found himself alone with his wife.

Myrielle had rid herself of the dress and was brushing all evidence of the braids out of her hair. Her back was to him, but she could hardly have not noticed his entrance. He locked the door and ventured across the floor, but when he caught sight of himself in her mirror he stopped.

He knew what he looked like, he had known all his life. His stunted legs, the swollen brutish brow, the green eye and the black one, the raw stump of his nose and crooked pink scar, the coarse tangle of black and gold hair that passed for his beard. Tyrion had once slept with a whore who told him such while she rode him, but his little lady wife was a maiden. A highborn, Lannister maiden. She had stopped brushing out her hair to look at him, her eyes wide with fright, but she did not falter as she reached for him.

“I see you kept your pants,” he almost had not, but Sansa had chased Desmera off of them to save some of his dignity. 

“We must both find a gift for Sansa,” he replied, “she was most thoughtful.”

“She is my dearest friend,” Myrielle answered, and considered him with more hesitance than he had ever seen from her, and that said quite a lot, “my mother told me it would hurt, the first time, and perhaps others, but Sansa said that Jaime was kind and careful.”

Tyrion was sure he was. He himself had threatened Jaime with gelding should he harm the poor girl anymore, and Jaime imagined himself a noble knight. What true knight would hurt a maiden? It hurt, but he knew that Myrielle had not brought up Jaime to make him feel inferior. That was his own shortcoming, not hers.

He had hurt Tysha, he knew, but he would not hurt her. All those whores had to be good for something. He squeezed the hand she had wrapped in his and when he tugged ever so gently she stood to follow him. The bed was as silver as her cloak had been, and when he stopped she climbed into it and waited for him to do the same. Tyrion sat beside her and when he tugged at her hand she came forward, not back. As they kissed her watched her eyes, waiting for the flinch, for the disgust, but it never came. 

Instead, Myrielle kissed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the discussion, guys! I think it was a fitting see-off to our last Cat POV :)
> 
> Yay, wedding bells for Tyrion! And poor Myrielle, being given a horse of all things. I think she'd rather Doran send her a box of sand. 
> 
> Next chapter: Meereen (Dany, I think?)


	65. Mother of Dragons VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only death can pay for life.

Dany woke cushioned against Hizdahr’s chest.

They were alone in her rooms, the children long since sleep and watched over by guards. Her bloodriders were nearby, and some half-dozen Unsullied, but if they had entered the room they would have spoken to alert her. This presence was not her men, “Missandei?” she called, “Irri? Jhiqui? Meliqo?”

“They sleep,” came the answer, and Dany knew. A woman stood at the steps of her balcony, but Dany did not need to look to know her. She was dressed in a hood, and, if one looked closely, a wooden mask finished in a dark red lacquer.

“”Quaithe,” she said, “why have you come?”

“There is a man here, a maester and a mage. He bears a glass candle.”

Marwyn. It must be, how could Haldon have a glass candle? But she did not say that, for she knew that Quaithe would never answer her, “then why did you not go to him?”

“Because he would not hear me.”

“Speak, then,” Dany commanded, “I will hear you.”

“There is a way to save your prince.” He was not her prince. If he was anyone’s, he was Arianne’s, but Dany did not say that either, “but the price is high.”

“Higher than death?”

“Only death can pay for life.” Oh. Oh _no_. Quaro and Haggo and Cohollo, Qotho and Mirri Maz Durr and the stallion, and still Drogo lay on his pyre, alive but dead all the same. She thought of Arianne weeping outside of Aegon’s door, of White Lion with his spear in his throat, of little Rhaego reaching for her as she landed on the balcony, of the crack of a dragon’s egg as it landed at her feet.

“Tell me what I must do.”

When dawn came she crawled from the silk sheets and dressed in the painted vest that Arianne had sewn with her own hands. Then she sent word for her men to meet her in the dungeons, and went to the thirtieth floor where her guests stayed, Jorah at her side. Aegon’s rooms were not difficult to find. Dany had never been to this floor before, but Arianne lay on a pallet in front of a door with a Targaryen banner in black and orange and it was there Dany went.

Arianne sat up at her footsteps, hair wild and eyes exhausted, but Dany only nodded to the door, “tell him that he must come to see Jon Connington. I wish to speak with all of them.”

“Aegon, you must come out,” Arianne said to the door. Dany could not hear the reply, but no sounds came to signify that she was being obeyed, “no, idiot, Daen-”

Dany stepped close to the door and said to it, “if you wish to speak with Connington, you must come now.”

A pause, and then the sounds of the door being unbarred. It cracked open ever so slightly, “no one can touch me.”

“No one will touch you,” she agreed, and stared at Arianne until her cousin muttered assent. While Aegon stumbled into the light of the corridor, she turned to Jorah, “Maester Haldon and Lady Ashara as well.”

It was not difficult to collect Ashara, and after some discussion with a door, Haldon came as well, his hand wrapped tightly in a bandage and smelling of lemon. Dany ignored that in favor of leading them down to the dungeons. All the way Jorah kept his hand on his sword and Aegon kept Ashara between himself and Arianne. He was not the only one who was afraid, and to soothe them both Dany caught Arianne’s hand in her own and clung to it.

Outside of the dungeon they stopped to allow it to be unlocked. Dany shut her eyes and remembered Quaithe’s words. _If I look back, I am lost._ Was that still true? If she did not know what kind of man her father had been, she might become like him. She looked to Arianne, who was near tears, and when the door opened she stepped inside. It was dark and hot, but Connington had been kept away from all the rest to prevent the spread of the plague.

Maester Marwyn and Ser Barristan awaited them at the cell, the men were arguing, but when Dany approached they fell silent. She looked into the cell at Connington, and then at Marwyn, but before she could speak Aegon had launched himself at the cell bars and the knight within had scuttled out of reach.

“Get away!” he commanded.

“Do not worry for me, Jon,” Aegon answered, “I am infected already.”

"No. _How_?"

"I believe the training yard, across my shoulder."

The knight turned as pale as a ghost and buried his head in his hands in despair as he stumbled back, “then I have failed.”

“What were you doing?” Aegon pleaded, “why would you try to trick Drogon?”

Connington held up his right arm to look at it, “I swore I would see Rhaegar’s son on the throne. This plan of your aunts… I would die before you even reached Westeros and she will not even agree to wed you.”

“So you paid the Shavepate and Daario,” Dany accused. _One for gold_.

The man did not try to deny it, “what was I to do? Leave Rhaegar’s son to rot in Essos?”

“It is better than killing Rhaegar’s son in Essos, one would presume,” Haldon said. Connington looked at his hand and shook his head.

“I did not mean for this to happen.”

“I trusted you, Jon,” Ser Barristan said, “you swore to be loyal to the Targaryens and then you tried to murder Daenerys.”

“Aegon is the rightful king,” Connington sounded defeated, “he has the stronger claim.”

“That is not how Viserys told it,” Dany said, in the sudden silence, “he said that he was named heir by our father before he left Kings Landing. When Elia Martell and her son were still alive.”

“Aerys did many things no sane man would. That was one of them.”

“Queen Daenerys, _Aunt_ Daenerys, please,” Aegon interjected, “we are both to die. Let him come to my rooms so we might spend a few final hours together.”

“You do not have to die,” Dany admitted, each word felt like ice, like death, “I spoke to an Asshai woman. A shadowbinder. There is a way to rid you of the greyscale...if you indeed have Valyrian blood.”

“What is it? It must be done,” Connington spoke quickly, “tell us!”

“Only death can pay for life,” the words tasted like dust in her mouth, “there is a ritual. If we burn Aegon in flames alongside a living man, the fire will also burn away his greyscale.”

The room was silent for a long moment. At last, Marwyn spoke, “she speaks truth. It is blood magic, always dangerous, generally uncertain, but it can be done. With dragonfire. _If_ you have Valyrian blood.”

“Who must we burn?” Ashara asked. They were desperate indeed if they were agreeing to this plan.

“There are a thousand men in the city who deserve death,” Haldon said, “rapists, murderers, slaveholders. One of them.”

“No,” Dany said, “those crimes have punishments. I cannot burn one man and let the rest suffer the normal punishments. It is not just.”

“One who committed a particularly heinous crime-” Haldon began.

“What of a man who is already dying-” Ashara asked.

“There must be someone who can be paid to sacrifice himself-” Arianne said.

In the clamor Dany could only just hear Connington when he spoke, “burn me.”

“No,” Aegon protested, but Dany had already heard him.

“You would willingly die on a pyre?”

“For Rhaegar’s son, yes,” the man approached the cell bars to look her in the face, “I did this to Aegon, no one else. I must die anyway, let me die in his place.”

“Jon, _no._ ”

“You truly believe that he is my brother’s son?” the knight indeed saw Aegon as his son if he would die for him. Dany would have done the same for Rhaego if she had infected her daughter, but she had not expected as much from this gruff man.

“For the love you bear me, Aegon, be silent,” Connington commanded, “if he lives through a fire, does that not prove him a Targaryen? I beg you, Queen Daenerys, let me die in his place.”

“And if he dies as well?”

“Then he dies, he will die if we do nothing, what does it matter?” Connington slunk closer to the bars, “but what if he lives? Will you accept him as Rhaegar’s son then?”

Dany looked to Aegon and he did not look back. He was leaning against the bars of Connington’s cell, eyes closed with exhaustion. Marwyn had said Valyrian blood, had he not? The silver of his hair promised that much, but no more. Yet how would she ever know if this man was her brother’s son? Lord Varys was a liar, and he alone would know if he smuggled Elia’s son out of Kings Landing as he said he had.

“If he lives,” she said at last, “let us join our claims. When we take Westeros Aegon may marry whichever noblewoman he pleases and I will marry my heir to his.”

It was a good solution, one Hizdahr had proposed. Rhaego was both female and the daughter of a Dothraki khal, even if Dany conquered the Seven Kingdoms, her daughter needed a husband of Westerosi blood. Who better than one with Aegon’s coloring? It would also free her to take a Westerosi husband, rather than Aegon himself, which would further embed them in the lands of their birth.

Connington looked at Aegon. Aegon looked at her. Arianne looked at Aegon and then back at her. The hall was still for a long moment, but at last Ashara said, “it is a good plan. Let the dragons do the conquering and let your son reap the benefits.”

“Why not simply marry him yourself?” Connington asked.

“Because I presume he wants his blood to inherit the Iron Throne and Rhaego is my heir,” that, at least, had never been in question. No one would set Rhaego aside save Rhaego herself.

“Targaryens married brother to sister for three hundred years and more,” Haldon said.

“No longer. Maester Marwyn believes that it was that incest that cause the madness of my father and many others of my house,” Dany would not have her grandchildren be as mad and inept as their ancestors had been, “I will not marry my children to one another and encourage more men like my father.”

“There are hundreds of suitable women in Westeros,” Arianne spoke before the argument could begin anew, “and in a few years there will be more. No one would refuse a marriage to the queen’s nephew. You could marry a beauty of the Rock, a maiden of the Reach, a redhead Riverlands girl, even the Starks in the North have a daughter who would be of an age to be married.”

Privately, Dany thought that Aegon would sooner marry a Princess of Dorne, but that was not hers to say.

“There are a number of Hightower daughters that would be suitable matches for a Prince of Westeros,” Haldon noted, “Baelor has three daughters of the right age, Elaena, Morrigon, and Gaeyn.”

“So does House Dayne” Ashara said, “but I am not singing their praises. If he wants a Reach bride he should marry Margaery Tyrell.”

“She is no longer a maid, whereas Baelor’s daughter are.”

“Do you think the worth of a woman is in her virginity?” Dany interjected, “my protest would be that any babe born to her might be suspected to be a Baratheon and not a Targaryen, not that she is a widow with a baby.”

“Perhaps we should attempt the cure _before_ deciding who he needs to marry,” Connington said, “while the pyre is built, allow us to speak privately, please.”

Said pyre was 2,5 meters high, with a center pole even higher. At Hizdahr’s bidding, she had it built outside the city on the sand of the beach, to prevent any flames from spreading to the city. Her husband found a number of freedmen who had been builders to work for food and coin, and they built it beautifully under Marwyn’s directives. It was almost a shame to burn it. Half the city was watching when Connington emerged from the pyramid at dusk.

He walked alone, with a cluster of Unsullied about him to fend off assassins and stop him should he turn into the crowd. They were under orders to not stop him if he turned back to the pyramid. When he reached the pyre they stopped and he climbed to the top alone. Once there, he turned to the crowd and shouted in scattered Valyrian, “ _hear me! This I do for my brother’s son.”_

“He is a wise man, khaleesi,” Jorah said beside her, “he has saved you much trouble.”

A wise man would not have brought the grey plague into Meereen, where it could kill thousands if he so much as touched someone. And Connington had done it for Aegon, not for her, but she did not say that. Drogon and Viserion lingered behind them, and although Dany did not want to set the fire she knew that it would hurt Arianne more.

When Aegon climbed the pyre beside him the men embraced, then Connington allowed Aegon to tie him to the pole in the center of the pyre. Marwyn had been circling about the edges of it, but now he came to Dany, “it is done. You may light it.”

“You are certain?”

“As certain as any man can be, unless you have your shadowbinder to hand.”

She did not. Quaithe had refused to join her until she was in Westeros. Beside her Arianne and Quentyn began to argue, but Dany did not hesitate. _If I look back I am lost._ She went to Drogon and climbed onto his sleek scales, gripping his spines to hold herself in place. Together they approached the pyre, and the crowd parted before them. Sitting straight to look Connington in the eye, Dany called out, “you do not have to do this. Speak the words and I will see you back to the pyramid.”

A ripple of whispers formed among their audience, but Connington stared at Drogon’s face and shook his head steadily, “I do have to do this. This is my fault.”

Dany directed Drogon’s head to him, he would die faster that way. She had seen it at Astapor, those hit directly with the flames barely had time to scream, while those who stumbled into them died slow deaths, “Drogon,” she called, but the word stalled on her lips.

On the low breeze she could hear the Undying again.  _Mother of dragons, bride of fire._

She did not believe in the gods, but she wanted to pray. To Arianne’s gods or Drogo’s gods or Hizdahr’s gods she did not know, so she could not address her prayer. What was she to pray for? Aegon’s life? A quick death for Connington? For Quaithe’s scheme to work? Connington was looking up at her, and for a moment she saw pity on his face.

“Go on, my queen,” he said gently, “I am a dead man either way.”

 _Mother of dragons,_  said the wind that trickled through her hair, _daughter of death._

Arianne was crying. Aegon had turned to watch as the fire rippled along Drogon’s scales.   _Please,_ Dany thought, to which deity she did not know. Perhaps to none at all. Perhaps to Quaithe or Marwyn or Drogon. _Please._ She had watched enough men burn for one lifetime.

“Drogon," under her hands his scales were firm and hot and smooth. His power gave her courage, "Drogon, _dracarys."_  

The fire had its own wind.

 _Mother of dragons_ , it sang, _slayer of lies._                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Aegon, always half dead by dragonfire.
> 
> I did like the comments on the last chapter (I'm at work and no internet on computer to answer them properly) and I promise to answer them tonight! I love you guys so I read them on my phone when we aren't busy (or lunch, like now).
> 
> Next Chapter: Tywin (feat. Margaery)


	66. The Old Lion IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Iron Throne balanced on a wire, the realm suffered.

12/24/301

Tywin was not deliberately avoiding the letter.

No, he had read it twice and then set it aside to think about it. If he was avoiding it he would not have read it twice. It was very important to send the letter he was writing off to Lady Sansa at the Rock, the bird could take two days to arrive in poor weather, and it may be that she was waiting on his reply to request the Payne’s store more of their harvest. The long summer was slowly turning into autumn, and there would only be a few small harvests left before winter, perhaps seven - once every year - if they were lucky. Autumn was not the time to be putting back food. 

Before that it had been necessary to visit the training yard to see how the men were doing and to review the figures being reported from the Stormlands. He had also visited the celebration below, as was necessary to keep up appearances. Tywin had danced with a smiling Queen Margaery, a sullen Cersei, and a laughing Genna, before escaping the hall. The roasted lamb was well made, though, the Tyrell cook knew what he was doing with Reach dishes.

When he had signed the letter, he looked out the window to discern the time. The lights in the ballroom below were still casting long shadows across the grass. It must be near the hour of the eel, but still music could be heard drifting from the keep. Perhaps the maester would be awake to send off this letter, and then Tywin could retire as well. It almost seemed a waste of time to go to bed so early, when there was still work to be done.

He picked up the letter had set off to the side and read it again. And again for good measure.

His musings were interrupted by a soft knock at his door, and the call of his guard, “Lord Tywin, the queen.”

“Enter,” he set the letter on his desk and leaned back. Perhaps Queen Margaery would have an idea of what to do. Cersei was her lady-in-waiting, after all. The little queen wore a gown of Tyrell green trimmed in Baratheon gold, a silver crown of roses and horns atop her head. She was flushed and smiling from the festivities below as she entered. She had, once again, brought flowers. 

Tywin was beginning to wonder if the Reach was running out.

There were red anthuriums and asters in his window, turned to catch the sun. One of his bookcases was adorned with a vase of white heather and another with a arrangement of purple and blue irises. Earlier in the week she had arrived with a cluster of daffodils. Half the plants in his solar were still alive, despite Tywin’s best efforts, because the queen had coerced a maid into watering the things. This time she had brought a pink flower, which she added to the daffodils’ vase.

“What is that?”

“It’s a carnation.”

“My solar is beginning to look like a garden.”

“Is there something wrong with a garden? You never leave the room, it is not good to have no color.”

“I have much to do.”

“Are they in the way? I can have a table brought up for them.”

Tywin shook his head, “the flowers are fine. How has Cersei been?”

“She has frightened half of my ladies and angered the other half. To be honest, Lord Tywin, she seems less interested in helping me and more in hindering me. I am almost frightened to allow her to hold Jocelyn, never mind the...rumors.”

“What rumors? The ones Stannis began?”

“No, my lord, other rumors,” Queen Margaery lowered her voice so her words would not carry, “there are some who say that Ser Jaime’s natural born son was born to his sister and Ser Kettleblack.”

“I presume these rumors are believed by the same people who believed Stannis?”

“Mostly, yes, but there is one difference. Ser Jaime had the grace to not agree to the rumors.”

Tywin could feel the headache beginning, “you mean to tell me that Osney Kettleblack is admitting to siring a bastard son on the former queen?”

“No, I mean that Ser Osney is telling people that he sired a bastard son on the queen. Ser Osmund is denying it, claiming he met the child’s true mother on the way to the Rock,” she sat back in her seat. Tywin picked up the letter and handed it to her, then retreated to look out the window. On the grounds below shadows danced in the candlelight. The rumors about Jaime were untrue, of course, and easily shut down, but by Lady Sansa’s account the baby was black of hair and with dark eyes. She had reported no mother, but it was possible that Jaime had the sense to pay the woman and send her away. Cersei could not be so foolish, could she?

Behind him the queen checked for a second page of the letter, “what is this?”

“It appeared on my desk this morning, I suspect that my squire Martyn brought it on behalf of his elder brother,” he had thought all day about taking it to Kevan, but did not know if he should have him scold his son or accept the offer, “there are hundreds of men who would gladly wed Cersei, but I would sooner keep her close.”

“In case something happens to Jocelyn?” the queen asked, “or because Tommen might yet be a claimant to the throne.”

“I mean you no ill will, Queen Margaery,” the girl hardly looked offended, “but I would sooner not trade away a Queen Regent for temporary silence. Many babes die early in life, and one day Tommen may decide to claim the Iron Throne for himself and reestablish the Targaryen succession.” 

“If you do not take Lancel up on his offer, I would not wed her to a Storm lord,” she noted, “but there is another way to ensure a Lannister remains in power and remove Cersei from the succession.”

“Oh? And what would you propose?”

“If Jocelyn dies you do not only lose the throne to Tommen and his mother, you lose the Tyrells,” the queen stood and followed him to the window, “the only way to secure the throne and the my father is with a king regent. I could be removed if Jocelyn died and Cersei put in my place, but if a Lannister king regent was in place he could simply raise Tommen to the throne and keep Cersei from him. It would be safer for all of us.”

Now Tywin understood. Queen Margaery was clever, but she was a girl all the same, and Lancel was young, strong, and handsome. He would be a change from cruel Joffrey; Lancel was as devout as his mother and as kind as his father. Furthermore he belonged to Tywin’s own house and was meek enough to be easily controlled by both he and the rose queen. If they married quickly enough, any son quickly born could be passed off as Joffrey’s rather than Lancel’s and give the throne more security. 

“You wish to marry Lancel.”

Margaery Tyrell stared up at him as though he were particularly dense, her green skirts touched by the breeze, “Lancel? No, I wish to marry you.”

In the silence that followed, Tywin found himself wondering if gifting flowers was a way to court a man in the Reach. Perhaps he could ask someone in a way that did not give away why he was asking. Not Lady Olenna, Mace perhaps, or Ser Loras. Then he found himself focusing on the little queen’s face. She was not Joanna, no, she did not have the beauty of a bride from the Rock, but neither was she ugly. Something in her plain coloring, the quirk of her mouth or the pride in her eyes, it made her catch the eye. Not to mention that she offered a dowry better than any woman in the Seven Kingdoms: a regency of the Iron Throne.

“I am fifty-nine,” he should be dragging her to an altar before she thought better of it. 

“Walder Frey has fathered a dozen children after the age of sixty, and it would not be a marriage meant for children,” the rose queen shook her head, “the more turmoil the Iron Throne suffers the worse the realm becomes. Children die in their cribs while we fight over which lord gets which seat. Even if I never have another child securing the peace we fought for would be worth it.”

“And you intend for us to rule together?”

“I hold court and, you serve as Hand, it has worked for a year, why not longer?”

She was not wrong. This marriage would bind the Tyrells to the Lannisters come death or war, and would ensure that Cersei would not do anything foolish in an attempt to see her son on the throne,  “your children will never have a claim on the Rock.”

“They would be scions of two Great Houses, cousins to the Starks and Tullys, to the Martells and Arryns, siblings to the Baratheon queen. My sons could foster from the Vale to Dorne; they would be noble knights in service to the Rock. My daughters would marry great lords, every one, and have their own children in every corner of the realm. They do not need the Westerlands to be happy.”

Already she had proven to be fertile and intelligent, House Lannister could use more members, such as it had in days long past. The little queen had killed a king for the daughter of a madman, her loyalty to her children was unquestionable, and could be channeled into use for House Lannister. But he was not a fool. No one married their daughter to two different kings without wanting power, “is your father so convinced?”

“I am the Queen Regent. I may marry whom I please, my father has no control over that now,” she retorted, “since you are so very concerned, I will keep my name and the children will have yours. Let Sansa keep her title, they may call me the Queen Mother instead.”

“I must think on this.”

“As you please,” she replied. “If you want my opinion on the letter, I suggest you take the boy up on his offer. You gave your nephew Tarbeck Hall, did you not? It will keep Cersei out of the Rock and out of Kings Landing. And she can hardly have bastards if she is married.”

Tywin resisted the urge to point out that one could have bastards while they were married, that very fact had started a war. Bolton reported that Stannis was alive  _ somewhere _ , but he could not be found. He was dubious that the man had died in the snow beyond the Wall. Stannis was many things, but a poor military commander he was not. When Robb Stark was alive he would have hoarded every scrap of food he could get. Yet they could not so easily accuse Cersei of it, which was mostly the point.

At least no one had bothered to listen when she tried to pass Jocelyn off as a bastard as well. Both the queen and Ser Loras had light brown hair, where was the princess’ hair supposed to come from if not Robert Baratheon? The girl’s very existence was proof of Stannis’ lies and yet every time Cersei opened her mouth she made the mess she had created worse. 

It was almost as if she was trying to.

Perhaps he should send a messenger to that Targaryen girl and see if she would like the throne. A wedding to Tommen would be a small price to pay. He was half tempted to do so anyway. By all accounts, the girl had hatched dragons, stolen an army, and conquered the city of Meereen. They had to do something with her, and a place as Lady of Storm’s End was not to be despised.  Tommen was not  _ promised _ to the Penrose girl, after all. Yet that might bring the dragons too. Better she stay in Essos and never so much as think of Westeros and her family’s former holdings.

Daenerys Targaryen, Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark, even little Lorra Penrose, all would make better queens than his own daughter. That thought made his headache worse. What was wrong with Cersei that she could not handle having children and keeping her mouth closed? Was it the lack of a mother? The resentment of Jaime? Even Tyrion knew when to shut his mouth and keep his head down, but Cersei seemed to lack basic survival instincts.

“It would confine her to one man, at least,” he agreed wearily, “she can hardly be rumored to have a bastard with a Kettleblack is she is in the Westerlands.”

“The crown would be happy to assist in the bridewealth, Lord Tywin,” the little rose replied, “it is better for everyone if Cersei is safe and happy and out of sight.”

At the very least it was better for the princess, and that made it better for the realm.

“I will send word on the morrow,” his solar smelt of cloves again. Did the girl bathe in them?

“Certainly, Lord Tywin,” she smiled as sweetly as any maid, “I will see to it that Jocelyn is kept out of Cersei’s way.”

Perhaps there was still wine left from Tyrion’s time in the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is the lack of comments on the last chapter a protestation of Aegon being repeatedly nearly murdered? Because that would be fair, the poor guy.
> 
> We do have one more Tywin chapter left, so we don't have to say goodbye to him quite yet. Hopefully he figures this mess out.
> 
> Next Chapter: Hizdahr


	67. Queen of Meereen III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wed Hizdahr zo Loraq and make a son with him, a son whose father is the harpy, whose mother is the dragon.

3/15/302

Rhaego was using Drogon’s horns as a pillow.

Meanwhile, Hizdahr was sitting on a bench beside the dragon, far too nervous to attempt sleep. Said dragon had chased off everyone except Rhaego, who had been Hizdahr’s last idea on how to calm him down. It had worked, of course, as the dragon was as fond of the little girl as Dany herself was. Currently, he appeared to be watching her sleep. Before that he had listened quietly while she told him the tale of Aegon the Conqueror and sang him a song in Dothraki. If he had not been so distracted Hizdahr might have wondered if some part of Daenerys was part of the dragon.

Yet he was distracted. Some half-hour ago, Dany’s voice had quieted, but the wail of a child had not been heard. So here he was, sitting in a corridor with Prince Aegon and Dany’s knights, while trying to ignore the oppressing silence. His wife had told him that her mother, Queen Rhaella, had died birthing her; he did not thinks his fears unfounded.

When he heard the jingle of the doorknob he lept to his feet, one of Drogon’s molten eyes lazily following his movements. The door was opened by Missandei, who stepped aside to reveal Arianne with a little bundle of blankets in her arms. Aegon and Ser Jorah were attempting to peer into the top of them without looking like they were, but when she held them out Hizdahr took them on instinct, arranging them carefully as he shifted the opening at the top wider.

Tiny brown eyes stared back at him.

The baby had his skin and eyes, but the downey fluff on her head promised hair of silver. She had a pert nose of the Meereeneese , a small mouth, and the arched eyebrows of a Valyrian. Arianne was beaming when he looked back up, as though she had born the babe herself, “isn’t she beautiful?”

She was.

Dany had expressed that their firstborn would be her heir, to inherit Slaver’s Bay after her, and although he had prayed for a male child for many days, he was willing to accept this little girl. The nobles would protest, the Green Grace would argue, but he could see her now on the steps to the Great Pyramid, dressed in a tokar of green and gold with a dragon at her heels and all the people of Meereen at her feet. The daughter of the harpy and the dragon.

Hizdahr’s thoughts were interrupted by the warm breath of another dragon at his shoulders. Little Rhaego was still asleep on his head, but Drogon was peering curiously at the blankets. The knights found somewhere else to stand. It was likely that Drogon could smell his mother. Hesitantly Hizdahr turned, and pulled back more of the blanket so the dragon could see the baby. The black nearly touched her with the front of his muzzle, but when the baby squeaked he jerked back as if he had been burnt. He inhaled deeply, his molten eyes shifting up to Hizdahr, and then he huffed and drew his neck back to his corner.

Arianne snickered at the display, “I must go get the children.” As she escaped past him he found himself alone in the doorway with the open room before him. None of the knights were brave enough to intrude upon Dany with her dragon present, it seemed. Adjusting the babe in his arms, he ventured inside.

Irri and Meliqo were fussing over Dany’s blankets and Jhiqui was fetching a pitcher from a side table. His wife looked tired and sore, but when she saw him she reached out, “she looks like you.”

“Have you named her, Radience?”

“Her name is Haezzea, for the girl that Rhaegal killed,” Dany answered.

“Some say it is ill luck to name a child after the recently dead,” he warned.

His wife adopted a stubborn look, “our daughter will command dragonfire, not fear it.”

“As you say.”

Dany smiled at that, “and you can name the next one.”

Their moment of peace was broken when the door was nudged open. Arianne stuck her head through the opening, “can we come in?”

She let go of the door as Drakahr pushed past her and rushed to Dany. He had to struggle to climb into the bed, but once he had he could see the baby’s head, “is that out new brother?”

“Your new _sister_ ,” Dany corrected, “and yes, Arianne, come in.”

Drakahr frowned, but Dorreqa cheered as she stood on her tiptoes to look at the newborn, “can I hold her, kepa? Please?”

“Sit on the bed first, like your brother,” he showed Drakahr how to support the infant’s head while his sister did as she had been told. The boy almost seemed frightened, and when Hizdahr began to pull his hands away he started.

“Wait, let Dorreqa hold her.”

“Let me hold her,” Arianne laughed.

“Have your own,” Aegon scolded her.

“I don’t want my own,” the Dornishwomen was a full foot shorter than her cousin, but still managed to look down her nose at him, “I want to hold Daenerys’.”

Dorreqa was more sure of her grip than her brother, and she gently rocked the silent infant. Her brother leaned to look over her shoulder, “she’s quieter than you were,” he accused.

“She is not! Kepa!” Drakahr was right, she was. Dorreqa was the daughter of a noblewoman from Yi Ti, and had been the nosiest child he had ever met. Drakahr had been a fierce little warrior from the day of his birth, the son of a slave from Astapor, and yet still managed to be quieter then his sister.

“Do not yell, you might upset her,” Hizdahr gently took the baby back, “if she starts crying, Drakahr, you might change your mind.”

“Aegon, you should hold her,” Arianne was chiding when he had refocused on the conversation.

“Me?”

“Ser Jorah first,” Dany interjected, “and then Ashara and Aegon can argue over it. Arianne, where is Rhaego?”

“She is asleep on Drogon,” Hizdahr answered, as he handed the child over to the knight, “he had chased everyone else out of the corridor and she was the only thing that could calm him.” He directed a pointed look at Ser Barristan, “your knights were too afraid to enter the hall until she herself had fallen asleep on him.”

Dany laughed, tired. Before she could ask he went back to the corridor. He was fairly confident the dragon would not kill him just for waking the girl up, but he did not dare lean over his muzzle to do so, “Rhaego, are you awake?”

“Vo,” she rolled to her other side. The dragon huffed and if Hizdahr hadn’t known better he would swear that Drogon was laughing at him.

“Rhaego, your mother wants you.”

“Anha zin remek.” Before he had met the stubborn Dothraki girl he had never before learned a language through osmosis. It was an elightening ordeal and one he hoped to never experience again. Instead, he had hired someone to teach him the Westerosi tongue.

“Come and see your sister.”

Rhaego’s head shifted slowly to look at him, then she crawled to the corner of Drogon’s head nearest him. The dragon did not like that, for he deliberatly swung his head toward Hizdahr, so he could catch the girl if she fell, “Drakahr said it would be a brother.”

“Did you want a brother?”

“Yes! Girls are boring!” when he reached out to help her down she half-lept at him, and he caught her.

“How are girls boring?”

“They never do anything! Missandei reads and Meliqo gossips and all Irri and Jhiqui do is argue over men!”

“What about your mother?”

“Mia is not a girl, she is a khal.”

“Do khals have babies?”

Rhaego paused at that, frowning, “no, but khaleesis do not rule. Mia rules so mia is a khal.”

“If your mother has babies and rules, is she not a girl khal?”

“Girls cannot be khals.”

“Why not? Your mother is,” Rhaego seemed even more confused at that, and when he set her on Dany’s bed she crawled into her mother’s arms.

On the other side of the bed, Irri seemed confused too, but more determined than Rhaego had been, “women cannot lead khalasars, it is known.”

“You are part of my khalasar,” Dany answered. Little Rhaego looked up at her, then to Irri.

“Yes, but…” Irri looked at Jhiqui, frowning, “you hatched dragons.”

“I am still a woman.”

“But women are not khals,” Rhaego repeated, “there has never been a woman khal.”

“I am a woman khal,” Dany replied, more harshly than she likely intended, looking down at her daughter.

“One day,” Hizdahr said, before Rhaego could become more confused, “you will be a khal and you are a girl.”

“But girls cannot be khals!”

“Will you not be a khal? Do you intend to take up sewing and play music and sing?”

“No, never!” she scowled darkly.

“Then you will be a second girl khal,” Arianne and Ashara watched with some amusement, but it was Ser Jorah that the girl turned to when she made no progress with him or Dany.

“But girls are never khals, only boys?”

“That was how it was,” he agreed, “but not how it is now. Your mother changed that, and so will you. Once only khalakkas become khals, but you are a khalakki and you will be one.”

“In days past,” Hizdahr agreed, seeing his opening, “there were many slaves in Meereen. Do you know why there are no longer slaves?”

“Because mia freed them,” Rhaego seemed proud that she finally knew something.

“And in days past there were no woman khals. Your mother changed that too, and one day you will be a khal if that is what you wish. Men will tell you that there cannot be woman khals, but you will be one, and so they will be wrong. You will prove them wrong.”

Rhaego was still frowning, “but women cannot be khals?”

“Why not?”

“They are weak and stupid.”

“You are a woman. Are you weak? Or stupid?”

“No! Not me, other girls!”

“Girls can be khals and boys can like to sing or sew,” Arianne agreed, “many men are weak as well, and those men will never rule. It is because you are strong that you can rule, and women can be as strong as any man.”

“Khal means king,” Aegon asked, “does it not? It might be more proper for a female ruler to be called a khaleesi.”

“Khaleesis are the wives of khals, never rulers in their own right,” Dany shook her head, “but my position is not given to me and neither will Rhaego’s be. So she will be a khal.”

Rhaego was staring at Aegon. At last she said, “you have mia’s hair.”

In all the excitement, Hizdahr had forgotten that she had never met Aegon before. He also had her mother’s eyes and high nose and a flecking of grey just visible by the collar of his shirt, “Rhaego, this is…” he looked at Dany.

“This is your cousin, Aegon.”

“My cousin? Like Arianne? Her hair is black.”

“He is your iāpanna, and Arianne a more distant cousin,” Hizdahr provided, “Aegon, this is Rhaego, Khal Drogo’s daughter.”

“I am three!” the girl provided happily.

“Hello…” Aegon said, hesitantly. In truth, Hizdahr was surprised that they had managed to convince him to hold the child. He had avoided everyone except Arianne as if they had the plague - or, rather, as though he might still have it, “would you like to hold your sister?”

Rhaego considered that, “no. But I would like to see her. Can I see her?”

Aegon stepped closed to the bed and shifted the baby to lie on it. Ashara stepped close to cage the baby with her body to insure she did not fall. Rhaego peered into the blankets, “she has mia’s hair, but not our eyes. She has your eyes, Kepa. Does she have a name?”

“Her name is Haezzea,” Dany told her. Rhaego went back to looking at the baby.

“Muña?” Dorreqa nudged Danyś arm, ¨what am I to be?”

“To be? I don’t understand.”

“We must all be something. You are a queen, Rhaego will be a khal, Meliqo is a handmaid, what am I?”

“You may be whatever you want to be.”

“Are you not to decide?”

“I cannot decide what you will be. You must choose for yourself.”

“In Meereen, the head of a household will give his children positions,” Hizdahr explained, when Dorreqa only seemed more confused, “our father decided that Meliqo was to be a handmaiden for a noble house, he sent our sister Pashomda to the temple, he married our brother Zhondar to a noble house, and he named me his heir.”

Dany considered him for a long moment before she looked down to the girl, “when I was thirteen my brother, the last male member of my family, married me to a Dothraki khal. When he died, I was supposed to join the dosh khaleen. That was the fate my brother decided for me. Instead I lead a khalasar across the Red Waste and to Qarth, I sailed to Slaver’s Bay and freed the slaves of Astapor and Yunkai and took Meereen for my own. You must decide your own life, Dorreqa, no one else shall.”

“What of Rhaego?” Arianne asked, grinning, “you mean to sit her on the Iron Throne. What if she does not want the throne?”

“Then another of my children will take her place,” Dany answered, “she may do as she pleases.”

“One day,” Rhaego said, from her place beside the babe, “I will ride a dragon as great as my brother, and every khal will bow before me. I have seen it.”

“Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres,” Ser Jorah laughed. When the rest of the room stared at him, he translated, “when Daenerys was still pregnant, the dosh khaleen told Khal Drogo that his child would be ‘vezh fin saja rhaesheseres,’ the stallion who will mount the world. Drogo thought it was a son, but by the time Rhaego can claim a dragon they will be a half-century old. They will lay waste to any horde that objects to her rule.”

“Balerion come again,” Dany looked out the open door to the hall where her son waited, “he will make a new Field of Fire in the Dothraki Sea.”

“Perhaps it is just as well that no khal has yet threatened Meereen,” they came every few years, and were paid well to leave. In the state Meereen was in, they could not pay them enough, “we do not need more dead outside out walls.”

“They will come eventually,” his wife seemed stronger at the thought of it, “and we will pay them fire and blood. Perhaps the men of Drogo’s khalasar will be among them. I owe them a debt.”

“Kill people later,” ever practical, Arianne smiled down at the newborn as she spoke, “but there is the matter of having a female heir. The Meereenese chose their heirs, yes, but few choose women.”

“Do not worry,” Hizdahr’s daughter would rule after them if that was what she wished, “I will announce to the nobles that I will give a hundred honors to any nobleman who makes one of his daughters his heir and I will give one thousand honors to the Graces in secret. Half of them will have declared for it by week’s end, and half of the remaining within the years you have given Yunkai and Astapor. The other quarter are too rich or too proud to bend.”

“How much is an honor worth?” Aegon asked the room at large, but he looked at Arianne.

“They are the highest currency in Meereen, worth two golden dragons, perhaps more now that the city has begun to recover,” Arianne looked back to Hizdahr, “what should we do with the rest of them?”

“Nothing. In seven years the dragons will retake Yunkai and Astapor,” he glanced at Dany, “it is my advice to offer the nobles of the cities their wealth and their heads, for the price of naming a daughter as their heir. The women will be grateful to you, and it is a display of power that cannot be ignored. In time, those in Meereen who refuse will considering naming female heirs as well so that they are not left out.”

Dany and Arianne stared at each other for a moment, “it is a good plan,” the Dornishwoman agreed.

“I will think on this. Later. Jorah, will you take Rhaego to her rooms?”

“Yes, khaleesi,” the knight agreed, “come khalakki, you may visit your sister in the morning.”

Rhaego allowed herself to be picked up and carried off, and Dorreqa and Drakhar followed Meliqo after some badgering. His sister had become very fond of his children now that their mother could not scold her for it. Dany’s affection had brought that of her household.

“Do you want me to stay?” Arianne asked.

“Yes,” his wife grimaced, “but I want Hizdahr too and I cannot have both.”

“Why not? Invite Aegon as well and we can have a party!”

“That’s all right,” Aegon protested, a bit too quickly.

Hizdahr had to suppress a laugh. The boy was noble and well spoken, but the very implication of sex made him flush. He doubted that he had ever even considered lying with another man, and, although he wondered what the halted greyscale looked like after several months, it would be unwise to make a member of his wife’s family - if indeed that was what Aegon was - nervous to be around him.

“If Arianne does not mind, I do not,” he said instead, “you had a baby only a few hours ago, you can hardly be expected to be doing anything inappropriate with your cousin.”

“Would it be inappropriate?” Arianne snickered, “I hear that it is not in Yunkai.”

Hizdahr would never hear the end of that, and it was not even he himself who had done it, “my mother had few vices, princess.”

“And one of them was Lyseni woman?”

“Arianne!” Aegon protested, still blushing.

“Yes,” the man’s ears had turned red. For Dany’s sake, he hoped that Arianne managed to fix that before they reached Westeros, “now where is the cradle for Haezzea?”

“Aegon will bring it over,” Arianne said.

“I will?”

“Are you refusing? It is for your cousin, your iāpann.”

"An iāpanna is the son of a mother's older brother," Hizdahr had never heard Aegon sound smug before, "Rhaego would be my ñābrann, a father's younger sister's child."

"What does that have to do with the crib?"

"You were wrong, I think you should get it."

While she chided him into fetching it, Hizdahr picked up his daughter to look into her face again. When he handed her over to Dany, his wife stared up at him as she cradled the baby to her chest, “thank you.”

“For what?” he did not remember doing anything to be thanked for.

“For fighting for her position as your heir. I know you wanted a son.”

“I wanted you, Radiance, as I told you so many months ago,” Hizdahr leaned forward to press a kiss to her brow. In three days the Green Grace would arrive to see the babe, as was tradition, and would be told that the girl would be their heir. She would beg him to wait for a son, but he would tell her in the throne room, with all of Meereen before him and Drogon behind him. He leaned his forehead against his dragon’s and looked down at the little baby girl she held.

Haezzea. Daughter of the harpy and the dragon.

In her the prophecies shall be fulfilled, and their enemies will melt away like snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Dany, anyone? We have one last Meereen chapter after this (pov undecided, so let me know if you have a preference), in the closely-dated chapters that remain. Our last chapter is dated 6/302, if that's any indication of the timeline.
> 
> To clarify, after this we're having a short Sansa/Jaime fic which will be posted less frequently to give me time to finish my notes for the larger sequel. Once I post the last chapter of that Sansa/Jaime fic (hesitantly titled 'Hear Me Roar' but I'm taking suggestions), I will also post the first (finished :) chapter of the sequel (as yet unnamed.) 
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa (feat. Jerion)


	68. Lady Lannister XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

4/5/302

Kings Landing had not changed.

That was, the streets and the smell and the people had not changed. Joffrey was dead, and Sansa had outright refused to be present for the funeral. Cersei had sent a letter begging Jaime to come to see his  _ nephew _ laid to rest some year ago, but the man had the sense not to so much as bring it up to his wife. Indeed, she had only learnt of it when it was mentioned in Cersei’s most recent letter. In return for the consideration, Sansa herself had written the reply to Lord Tywin’s summons and sent it directly to Lord Tywin, along with Cersei’s newest missive. They had heard nothing more from Cersei on the subject. 

When Lord Tywin’s own summons had arrived, they had been unable to refuse. Sansa found that she did not mind quite so much, as they detailed that she would be a companion of Queen Margaery during her time in the Red Keep. He had promised handsome guest rooms and the chance to watch a second, lesser marriage, and Sansa had decided then that they must go. That had been three weeks ago, and Tyrion was still giving her the occasional suspicious look, as though he thought that she might do something mad. Out of insanity or anger, she did not know.

Queen Margaery had promised a warm welcome, and she had not lied. Whatever she had done to gain it, the smallfolk lined the streets before their horses, none of the tension of the riots present. Sansa herself was riding the blood bay that Dorne had gifted her, with a side saddle in the style of Westerlands noblewomen, Jaime’s white destrier on her right and Tyrion’s bay colt on her left. Her son had been left with Myrielle in the wheelhouse, but Sansa had no intention of riding it in herself. In truth, she had been surprised that Nala was willing to stay in it, as neither Lady nor Knight were. As the city streets closed around them, the direwolf had worried the cub until he same to walk meekly behind their horses.

Jaime called the halt in front of the Red Keep. From her place on her stallion, Sansa could see the queen and her daughter, Lord Tywin and Lord Varys, and half the court besides. Jaime lifted her down and Myrielle set her son in her arms. Jerion was thirteen months old and had learnt to walk at eleven months, as quickly as Arya had, but was still no match for stairs. Thrice Jaime had tried to convince her to leave him at the Rock, and each time she had refused. Her son was her safety in Kings Landing. Any action taken against her could easily be construed as being intended to be against the baby, and if Lord Tywin cared half as much for his legacy as he said he did then he could not ignore a slight against his heir.

Obella had dismounted as well, adjusting her skirts as an excuse to come up the steps with her, and as they reached the top Sansa knew why. Standing beside Lord Tywin and engaged in polite conversation with Cersei was Oberyn Martell. Jaime smiled easily, “father, you remember my wife, Sansa? This is our son, Jerion.”

The Great Lion stared at the boy, taking in his Tully hair and Lannister eyes. There was no doubt that this was Sansa’s son and Jaime’s, unlike the children belonging to Cersei. After a moment, Tywin spoke, “a strong child?”

“He learnt to walk at eleven months, my lord,” Sansa agreed. Tyrion waddled up the stairs with Myrielle at his side, and with Tywin came very close to smiling.

“Good.”

At that approval, the ice was broken, and Obella launched herself at her father while the queen smiled at Sansa in a way only a Tyrell could, “I am very glad to see you again! And we shall be sisters!”

“Sisters?” Myrielle took Jerion from her to allow the transfer of children, and Sansa collected the tiny princess with the greatest of care. Jocelyn had a head of dark hair, brown, Sansa thought, but it might be black like King Robert’s had been, like Jaime’s bastard’s was, if not for that King Robert was not this child’s grandfather. Her eyes were green, though, as bright as emeralds, like Cersei, like Jaime, like Jerion’s. This little Tyrell-Lannister girl was the only thing holding the kingdoms together, so instead of saying what she wanted to Sansa smiled down at the baby, “look, she has her grandfather’s hair!”

“She does! It goes well with her eyes, I think,” the queen lifted Jerion from Myrielle’s arms to admire his eyes, “and yes, sisters. I married first Ser Jaime’s nephew and then his father, that should make us sisters, do you think?” Margaery’s smile was sweet, but she knew that Joffrey had not been her husband’s nephew. 

Two years ago, Sansa wanted nothing more than to be Margaery’s sister. She wanted to marry Willas and be the Lady of Highgarden, but when she was wed to Jaime Margaery’s ladies would no longer look at her, and Margaery herself stopped inviting her on every little outing. The Tyrells had wanted her claim to Winterfell, as Lord Tywin did. Now Sansa did not need protection, but Margaery would still make a sweeter sister than Cersei. 

“Sisters, then,” Jerion gurgled happily as Margaery shifted him to her hip, “this is my other sister, Myrielle of Castamere.”

“You wed Lord Tyrion,” Margaery smiled sweetly as Myrielle cutseryed.

“I did, my queen.”

“Lady Ysilla of House Royce, my cousin once removed by marriage,” Sansa continued, noting that of her ladies only Ysilla was unwed to a Lannister and had joined them, “and you must know Lady Desmera of House Redwyne, wed to my second cousin Daven?”

“Desmera and I are cousins as well,” Margaery gave Jerion back over to Myrielle to embrace her tightly, “but I am afraid I know little of the Royces. Lady Ysilla, how are you Sansa’s cousin?”

“My grandfather’s sister Jeyne was wife to Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale,” Ysilla answered.

“I had thought that little Lord Robert Arryn’s father was a Tully?”

“My Aunt Lysa is his mother,” Sansa agreed, “sadly Jeyne Royce died in childbirth with her only daughter.”

“The Vale has such strange customs,” Desmera noted. In her three months at the Rock, she had not failed to understand the difference in status that Myrielle and Ysilla held, and their thoughts about that. Myrielle only shifted Jerion to her other hip, but Sansa smiled kindly at the Royce girl. Ysilla was interfering, but that gave them no right to be cruel.

“Ysilla has brought many tales of my little cousin,” she said. Margaery studied her carefully, and although Myrielle’s expression had never changed Sansa knew she understood too, “she has been a good friend to me.”

“You are welcome here, of course,” the queen agreed. Ysilla began to thank her, but Margaery had already turned to Sansa’s other companions, “are these the lion cubs you rescued, then?”

“The male is Knight,” Sansa explained, “his sister is Nala. Knight is more fond of me than his sister, I fear. That one is Jerion’s guard.”

“And the wolf?” Knight allowed the queen to rub his growing mane, while Lady had sat by Sansa. The direwolf was as tall as Sansa was when she sat.

“Her name is Lady,” Sansa was distracted from the cubs when Myrielle nudged her shoulder and pressed her son into her arms, and then Cersei was there, frowning down at the boy. Sansa was pleased to note that Cersei could no longer look down on  _ her _ as she was a good three inches taller than her good-sister.

“This is my brother’s son, I presume? He has a Tully’s hair.”

“So long as he has a Lannister’s sense, what does that matter?” Genna asked, “he has grown quite a lot since I last saw him.”

“When he was two days old?” Cersei asked.

“Yes, Cersei, children grow. One would think you would know this.”

“I pray that he takes after his grandfather, Lady Cersei,” Sansa agreed, watching the woman bristle at her aunt’s words and Sansa’s denial of a higher title. It was almost amusing. Cersei would not dare hurt her so long as she held Jerion, and Sansa had not lied. If her son was anything like Lord Tywin, she would never need to fear Cersei again.

“I had hoped mine would as well,” she agreed, “might I hold him?”

“It has been a long journey, and he is frightened. I fear he may start crying if I hand him off to people,” Sansa smiled a smile that Cersei had used on her. She doubted the woman recognized it, but she did know what being shunned was like.

“I am not  _ people _ , I am his aunt,” Cersei snapped, and reached for him. Sansa took a step back to avoid her and regain her space and she bumped into someone. She stumbled, and then there was a strong hand on her back, steadying her. When she turned she found herself looking up at Tywin Lannister.

The conversation had come to a sudden halt.

Lord Tywin looked from her to Cersei and back again, “are you hurt, Lady Sansa?”

“I am fine, my lord, thank you.”

“You stumbled.”

“Your daughter and I were having a disagreement over my son.”

His eyes flicked to Cersei again, and then back to her, “what kind of disagreement?”

“She wanted to hold him, I thought he may become frightened and begin crying if he were handed around after such a long trip.”

“You allowed Margaery to hold him,” Cersei pointed out.

“Queen Margaery is the queen, Lady Cersei, I could hardly refuse her,” Sansa pointed out, “and she allowed me to hold her daughter as well, it would be rude to refuse.”

“I am the queen,” she was trying to keep her temper, Sansa realized. It was most likely for her father’s sake, Cersei had never minded making a fool of herself in public. 

For his part, Tywin had not yet moved his hand from Sansa’s back, “Margaery is the queen.”

“It could not hurt for Cersei to hold him, could it?” Jaime asked. Beside him Tyrion shook his head and stepped around him so that he was not between his brother and their father. 

Tywin paused in whatever he had meant to say to look at his son. They were in public, not only with the court present but with a number of smallfolk at the edges of the courtyard, within hearing distance should Cersei throw a fit. Sansa fixed Jaime with a stare, “after what happened the last time your sister held my son, I believe allowing it again would be… unwise.”

A ripple of words flowed through the crowd around them. The court had always loved gossip.

Jaime’s smile slipped. Cersei lifted her head sharply and huffed, but gave no argument. Desmera spoke quickly and softly to Margaery, and Ysilla smirked as she explained the details that the Redwyne girl had missed. Tyrion tilted his head to look up at Jaime. For a moment the world stood still as Tywin looked from Jaime to Cersei, and then down to Sansa. His eyes looked like Joy’s this close, “what happened the last time Cersei held him?”

Sansa stared up at him. Had be been Jaime, she would have tried the look that she had perfected on Joffrey, wide eyed and innocent. As it was she settled for somber, “they did not tell you?”

“No.”

If he wanted half the court to know, that was not Sansa’s concern, “when I was unconscious after the birth, Cersei snuck into my rooms and attempted to suckle my son.”

Tywin was no longer looking at her, but at Cersei. The former queen had turned very pale. Even the current queen seemed worried, she hurried to Sansa’s side, leaving her daughter with Lady Leonette, “who told you this?”

“Lord Tyrion and Myrielle walked in while she was doing it.”

Margaery was a bit shorter than Cersei, but she looked over Sansa to Tywin. They stared at each other for an instant, and when Tywin looked over to Cersei his time his voice was lower than it had been, “you are to leave your brother’s heir alone.”

“Father-”

“Go to my solar and wait for me there.”

“You would not believe her over me?”

“Perhaps he would believe his son and good-daughter over you instead,” Tyrion mused. Tywin glanced at Myrielle, and unlike most she did not flinch from his gaze. Myrielle never flinched, Sansa had found, but she was better at going unnoticed than most household mice.

“Lady Sansa, my sister will show you to your rooms,” Tywin said, his voice softer than it had been when he addressed Cersei, but firm all the same, “you must be tired after the trip.”

“Thank you, Lord Tywin. Did you want me to show the queen the matters of the Rock after dinner?”

Margaery laughed, “I have a kingdom to run, sweet sister, I trust that you will make a better Lady of Casterly Rock than I could.”

“It will likely be more confusing to change places in a decade,” Sansa warned. For all her faults, Margaery was kind and easy to trust, but that only made her more dangerous. 

“You may keep the title, and give it to your son’s wife,” the queen promised, “as I told Tywin, they may call me Queen Mother instead. Come, I will show you to your rooms as well, you must see the dress I chose for tonight.”

She looped her arm through Sansa’s spare one, and together they ventured into the keep. In days past, Sansa would have hung her head and avoided the gaze of the nobles. These people had watched as she was tormented, some had even laughed, and she would never believe that they were her friends. They wanted to use her position to benefit theirs, as they had when she was nothing more than the brutalized daughter of a traitor. 

Instead of flinching from them she lifted Jerion higher and smiled brightly at him, and when some poor Tyrell guard dropped his shield at the sight of the lion that kept to her heels she laughed with the queen and continued on. 

Her father had died in these halls, died because he was a good and honorable man, died because he trusted the wrong people, died because the queen was fucking her brother. The removal of his head from the walls of the Red Keep had been Lord Tywin’s wedding gift, a gift he had sworn to her brother as a condition of their marriage. But Sansa had not died, she had sang their sour song and she had lived. 

They had married her to a lion, hoping to claim her wolf blood, but they had only managed to give her a lioness’ claws to match her fangs. She would kiss the queen and keep the Rock and have a dozen cubs if that was what they desired, but they had made her a Lannister. Lannisters were not honorable. Between Tyrion and Jaime, Myrielle and Genna, innocence and seduction and late-night tears, Sansa had learned the names of those who killed her father.

King Joffrey gave the order. Sansa had seen that herself, but Joffrey was a boy, stupid and willful. Ser Janos Slynt saw it carried out. Tyrion had told her that one night, after Robb was dead, when they drank until dawn and Myrielle came to find her and dry her eyes; Slynt had murdered her father’s men. Queen Cersei should have stopped it. She was the regent, it was her responsibility to see that the justice she promised was carried out. Ser Ilyn Payne swung the sword. Her father’s sword, at that, and she remembered screaming when his head hit the floor.

Why had Joffrey decided to defy his mother and order an execution? Why had his men be so eager to carry it out in defiance of his regent’s command? Sansa did not have an answer to that. Joffrey was dead, his men were nothing, and, with the birth of Jocelyn and Jerion, Cersei had lost all relevance in the question. If Sansa wanted her dead it would be for her own sake, not her father’s. 

Someone in the keep had the answers she wanted. Lord Tywin, Queen Margaery, Lord Varys. Maids, guards, soldiers. Lowborn or high. Someone knew. She would find out, and once she had Sansa would not need Robb to gift her the heads of her enemies. Jaime’s sword or Tywin’s, Margaery’s cleverness or Tyrion’s, lion or direwolf or dragon if she must, she would have vengeance for her father.

Her son gurgled in her arms, and she slowed Margaery’s pace to adjust him. She pressed a kiss to his head and he laughed happily. His green eyes sparkled, so like Jaime’s, like Lady Joanna’s, that looking at them made her wonder if Tywin would be half so kind to her if her son had not looked so very much like a trueborn Lannister. Jerion was a lion. So was Sansa.

A Lannister always pays her debts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still have one more Sansa chapter, because I thought everyone would like to end with her.
> 
> So, I'm glad to hear that it isn't Aegon specifically that disinterests everyone in Dany. I do hope that some of you stay with me during the sequel, which is more Dany focused. I also like the commentary on poor Rhaego and her ideas on feminism.
> 
> Next Chapter: Meereen (feat. Rhaegal)


	69. Kingmaker VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There sits Balerion, come again.

4/5/302

For three weeks after surviving the fire, Aegon says very little.

He spends most of his time at Connington’s grave, set under the massive olive tree in the furthest corner of the courtyard from Rhaegal’s nest, marked only by a seven-pointed star carved beautifully from a piece of pine. Arianne does not know where it came from, but she likes to think that Ashara purchased it. Aegon certainly didn’t. The princeling lets the tree do his weeping for him, but he plays the harp sometimes, poorly, and reads from old books with travel-worn covers.

Daenerys has not said anything about acknowledging Aegon as a member of her family, but when he finally returns to court he will find that a new stone bench has been set to the right of Arianne’s. He knows about it, she thinks he does, at least, but he gave no reply when she told him. Some nights she thinks she can hear the awkward _pang_ of that harp in the courtyard, but does not go to his rooms to check. Once Aegon pursued the dragon queen like an eager hound puppy, now he reads scripture and chivalry and poetry in the courtyard and sleeps long into the day.

It had been Marwyn who jolted Aegon out of the worst of his melancholy. After the events on the pyre he had taken to locking himself in his rooms and permitting only Marwyn entry, and whenever the old maester visited Arianne slipped in as well. The mage rubbed a salve on the remnants of the greyscale every evening, but at last he had rubbed his bare hands on the dead skin and rubbed them on his face, and asked what Jon Connington had died for. Arianne felt it was unfair to strike out at Aegon as he did, but he left his rooms afterward and that was more than she could do.

One night he slipped into her bed, for all that she had tried to give him space to mourn, and wrapped his body around hers. Arianne tried to imagine her own father dead, but Doran has always been solid and unmoving, has always been Dorne, and she cannot. She cried with him harder for that. In the morning she stole into the corridor to take the salve from Marwyn. He smiled sharply at her, too sharply, but Arianne was Dornish and a dragonrider, she would not shrink from the likes of him. When she returned to her room, Aegon had gone to lie against Viserion’s scales, and her dragon is as unconcerned with his presence as Arianne herself.

Many weeks later Quentyn sat beside her during the morning meal and asked if Aegon would like to join them in their morning sparing. He would have asked Aegon, but Aegon was staring at a fig in some sort of wonder and had not heard them at all. Quentyn and Drey would have been happy to spar with him themselves, but Arianne was of Dorne. She selected a shield and blunted spear - for Daenerys had commanded that all training weapons be blunted - and felled him three times that day. The fourth time he quietly asked for Quentyn’s shield, strapped it to the arm which bore the only burns on his body, those from Rhaegal’s fire and not Drogon’s, and had not lost again in single combat, save when Arianne used Uncle Oberyn’s tricks.

After many months, Aegon was approaching the person he had been before the man who raised him died screaming in a fire beside him. He fought and laughed, slept in her bed at night and kept Daenerys’ court, visited his father’s grave only on the seventh day of the week, the sacred day of the Faith. At some point he had unambiguously moved into her rooms, his clothes and books and armor, and all of Jon Connington’s things as well, even the Martell-orange dragon banner outside his door had been carefully nailed to her own. On his back, what remained of the plague was long and grey, beginning on his right shoulder, just visible above the neckline of a loose shirt, ending in the middle of his spine on the left side.

Ashara had wept for him for many long days, afraid for his health and for his sanity. Arianne knew she saw the madness that had taken Rhaegar in his son now. Daenerys had said little and less, but once when she had invited Arianne to her bed, their cresent-moon spines some inches from each other, she had asked if Aegon would live. Arianne did not know if she meant his person or his mind, but she had answered without hesitation. Hizdahr, in his very Meereen way, had shown his support by personally selecting the food that had been sent to Aegon for every meal during the early days, by gifting a new leather bracer made by some Dothraki smith when Aegon took to the training yard, by having a Martell-orange dragon on a Targaryen-black banner draped over Aegon’s new stone bench.

Arianne had the energy for none of that, for she was Aegon’s energy and her own some days, but at night when he woke frantic from some nightmare he clung to her like a drowning man. He sought her out in meals and the training yard and court, only left her side to visit his father’s grave some days, pressed his face into the pillows on her side of the bed while he stared out the balcony others, and if that was to be her only contribution then she thought it was one that mattered.

This morning she had begun to wish she could kick him back to his own rooms. It was not yet dawn, the hour of the nightingale full upon them, and he had lit a candle and was bumping around the room. Arianne let this go on for fifteen minutes, until he dropped a piece of metal armor that clattered loudly.

“What are you doing?” she stuck her head out of the pillow she had ducked under and glared into the dim light.

“I am going down to the training yard,” he answered, “did you expect me to go naked?”

“I expected you to go when the sun was up. Do you intend to fight in the dark?”

“We must meet the queen to break out fast,” he reminded her, grinning, “so if I wish to spar first I should go now.”

“Is there a reason you cannot go _after_ we visit the queen?”

“After we sit in the courtyard, admire her dragons and her children, go to court with her and listen to a hundred freedmen and slavers ask for hundred different things on half a hundred subjects, and always conflicting?”

“Who agreed to train in the dark?”

“Ser Archibald. He said he would bring your brother.”

Of course he had. Quentyn was more Yronwood than Martell at this point, and he had become close with the young knight in the wake of Cletus’ death. Aegon stepped away from the wardrobe, taking his loud steel armor with him and set it loudly on the table. He was behind the candle there, and there was something to be said for Dothraki clothes. The thick, boiled leather would easily deflect the training swords. Arianne had a breastplate that had been a gift from the dragon queen, and a pair of carefully-crafted pants that she had bartered from Irri with a blue silk from the market. Aegon wore a breastplate as well, although his was darker than hers, and had dressed in Hizdahr’s brace as well.

“Go on, then, get yourself killed,” she huffed. Aegon was trying to, failing at, lacing up said brace. He picked up the laces again, utterly patient, and utterly infuriating. Arianne dragged herself to the corner of the bed closest to the candle, “come here, idiot.”

Aegon presented his arm and she laced the bracer up for him, “thank you.”

“You need a squire,” he grinned at that. In the dimness of the candlelight his eyes were black.

“Where would I get a squire in Meereen?”

“I can ask Daenerys about Hizdahr’s boy. He is eleven, well old enough to be a page, and in three years a squire,” Drakahr was a sweet boy, with the dark skin of his Summer Islander mother and the bright brown eyes of the Ghiscari. Hizdahr had saved him from being murdered in his crib or being sold as an Unsullied, but he encouraged the child’s interest in learning how to use a spear. Well, a staff that the boy pretended was a spear, but one day those talents could be used to wield a spear.

“Hizdahr is protective of his children,” Aegon noted. Daenerys was as well, but she could deny Rhaego nothing, not Hizdahr’s presence or Aegon’s, not black Drogon or wild Rhaegal. Indeed, the little girl was the only person all three dragons were utterly careful of. The first time they had been otherwise had been the first day Daenerys rode Drogon. Even though the girl was all of three, Marwyn thought that perhaps Rhaegal rejected Aegon because she was already bonded to Rhaego.

“They will not be children forever,” Arianne tied off the bracer and fell back into the sleeping silks, “and there are worse fates for a boy born in Astapor.”

“Ask, then,” Aegon hefted his shield to tie it into the bracer. If he knew Arianne was staring at him he gave no indication. She drank moon tea every morning, but their children would be as beautiful as dragonlords. Viserion shifted in the first rays of the dawn and Arianne corrected herself. Their children _would_ be dragonlords, “I would not refuse him.”

He stepped out of the door and Arianne tugged the pillow back over her head as Viserion yawned. The dragon would want to go hunting soon, as soon as Drogon was away. If they went first, Drogon would steal her kill instead of making his own, so Viserion always waited for the thunder of wings to leave the top of the pyramid before complaining. Interestingly, both dragons would allow Rhaegal to eat first from their kills if she came from her nest in the courtyard, but she rarely did, well fed on pork as she was.

Arianne had not slept when she heard Drogon leave. The black had replaced the harpy on the pyramid, near as large and black as night, and some sailors had taken to calling it the ‘Bay of Dragons’ rather than ‘Slaver's Bay.’ She suspected that the name was helped along by Hizdahr’s obvious preference for the goods of sailors who did so. While she would have liked to sleep longer, she also wanted to see what Drogon would find in the sea today. Last week he had caught a three meter long creature with toothy jaws near half it’s body length and four flippers about a foot longer than that.  

Viserion prefered the smaller, more plentiful fish-eating creatures with thin jaws and narrow flippers and tapered tails, but her larger sibling hunted the hunters. The dragon had no protest when Arianne dressed in the hard leather of the Dothraki and wrapped the leather strap about her dragon’s neck. Her scales had no bend, so she could not be strangled, but it gave Arianne something to hold onto in flight. The first lurch was always the worst, but after that Viserion flew smoothly, out over the bay to follow her brother.

This time Drogon was circling a Lyseni merchant. The ships threw garbage overboard, including the remains of the meals, ribs and chunks of meat and smelly oils, and the meat-eaters of the ocean flocked to them. These men were not afraid of the dragon. They ran to the side of the boat to watch as he circled lazily, eager to see his kill. One man had a pot in his hands. He darted to the side of the boat and flung the contents into the water, little bits of fish and soup.

The water darkened where it landed.

No monster swam these waters, there were too many of the others for that. Drogon plunged his head down and came up with a mouthful of squirming fish-eaters, each twice the length of a man. One fell from his grip back into the water, bloody and wriggling. The black turned to the coast as the men shouted at his catch, but Viserion did not even wait for her brother to leave. She flapped her wings sharply, then pulled them to her body and shot into the water.

Arianne had not expected that. If it had not been for the strap she would have lost her grip and Viserion her prey, but she was a daughter of the Rhoynar. She had swam in the oceans of Dorne as a girl and when the shock of the water was over Arianne opened her eyes to see the world under the water. Little fish were nowhere to be seen, but the fish-eaters were. They were scattering to the winds after Drogon’s attack. Directly before Viserion lay the one he had dropped, missing a chunk of its flesh and a flipper.

The dragon snaked out her neck and bit into the creature. It writhed, larger than most of them, but without a flipper it was weaker than the rest too. Viserion bit again, to assure her grip, and used her wings as flippers as she propelled them toward the surface. Instinct caused Arianne to gasp in the air, and the roar of the sailors returned in full as Viserion pumped her wings violently and took to the air. Water sprayed into the air as they gained height, and Viserion did not make it far between the weight of the water and that of the fish-eater.

She landed on a Tyroshi galley, the sailors scurrying backwards from her wings, and as she tore open the fish-eater’s belly Arianne sat straight on her back and looked around. The captain of the vessel, a green haired man with bright blue eyes, bowed easily before her, although he gave Viserion a respectable distance, “Princess Arianne, your beauty has only increased with age.”

“Do I know you, ser?”

“I am Morollo, captain of the Sweet Pear. I was in Dorne some years ago, in 290 AC, and I visited your father’s court. You had planned the celebrations, I believe, and you were the most beautiful woman in Dorne.”

“Am I the most beautiful woman in Meereen?”

“You are the most beautiful woman that I have seen in Meereen,” he allowed, a smile firm on his face, “if you bring Queen Daenerys as close to me as you are now I will tell you again.”

“What have you come to trade, my dear Captain Morollo?” Arianne asked. Viserion ate the creature’s flesh, the ship’s crew looking away, then began to break the bones of the creature to eat as well. At least she had the sense not to use flame on a ship. Or perhaps she was simply too waterlogged to do so.

“Spirits, particularly pear brandy, and the most beautiful dyes beneath the sun,” he answered, “I will make a gift to you, princess, of whatever you please.”

Her dragon stood on his ship. If she desired the entire cargo she would have it, least Viserion burn the ship and let it’s crew swim for shore in the presence of creatures such as that she was eating now. Arianne studied the man’s dyed locks and wondered, for a moment on the fate of Tyrosh. Daenerys could hardly conqueror the cities of Slaver's Bay and let the other Free Cities go on without protest. It had been the Valyrians who founded them, after all, and who brought slavery to their people. One day, a Valyrian would hold them again. Still small, Drogon could burn the entirety of the fleet of Meereen’s harbor if he so chose. Perhaps not their conqueror would not be Daenerys, but his next rider.

What would the Free Cities do when the Dothraki rode dragons, and could not be paid to leave them be?

Arianne did not say that. It would be rude and set the Tyroshi on edge besides, “I believe my queen would enjoy your wines. Send a crate to the Great Pyramid in my name, and Lord Hizdahr will send for more within the week.” Daenerys liked the little peaches and figs of Meereen, she would enjoy the sweet fruit wines of Tyrosh.

The captain shouted orders, his voice cautious and his eyes on the feasting dragon. His men rushed about, most grateful to get out of the dragon’s sight, and in a few minutes a small, well-packed crate was brought out and ushered into a boat carefully. Nearby, the Lysene vessel had come close to see the dragon. A man leaned over the edge of the ship to call out.

“Princess!” She turned to look at them, and he pointed to a little boat of their own, being filled with supplies quickly. Two men had stopped in their work to unfurl a banner of black and red, the Targaryen dragon upon it, “for the queen! A gift from Lys! Wine and tapestries, and if the queen desires perfume she may have the choice of our cargo!”

Daenerys would like that as well. By day’s end, the news would have spread throughout the harbor. Somehow she doubted that the queen would turn away fine gifts, and if she did then Arianne might take them herself, “and what of the princess? Three weeks old and heir to Meereen, what will you give her?”

A low ripple filled both ships at the news. Haezzea had been seen by no one outside of Daenerys’ household, and they only had the word of the Green Grace that she was healthy. Per Ghiscari tradition, she would not be presented until her thirty-third day. The Tyroshi captain was saying something to his crew, but while the Lyseni drew back to speak to one another he spoke louder.

“Princess, look,” the man beside him opened the crate to reveal brightly dyed silks, “the purple, for the princess’ eyes.”

She did not bother to correct him. Viserion did not look up when she slipped down her scales and padded over to the box. Drawing the silk from the box she turned it to admire, then smiled sweetly at the captain, “I will give it to her when I break my fast with the queen. Lord Hizdahr may send for silks as well.”

“As he pleases,” she tucked it into her blouse before she climbed back onto her perch. That would keep it safest from the blood and salt. Viserion had finished the weight of her meal, the insides and the ribs. The rest could be carried to shore, but as she urged the dragon to turn the Lysene sailor called out again.

“Princess?” he held a jar carved in the shape of some great bird, “we have a gift as well.” Viserion crossed the ships in a single leap, leaving her kill behind. The men darted back again, but Arianne leaned down and reached for the jar, which he brought forth hesitantly, “lavender, to sooth and calm.”

“Your gifts will work well together, my lords,” Arianne noted, “the queen will be pleased of them.”

Cream wings spread, Viserion lept back to the Tyroshi boat, collected what remained of the fish-eater, and launched herself into the air again. Hizdahr would think her half mad, but Daenerys knew the value of speaking to the people personally. Besides, Hizdahr would like the gifts and the trade from the Free Cities, while Daenerys would enjoy buying more.

This was the way they landed in the courtyard, Arianne with a breastplate full of silk and perfume and Viserion with a dead sea creature‘s corpse in her jaws. Drogon lay behind his mother’s table with blood and gore covering his face while Hizdahr explained to Rhaego where the roasted figs had been grown. Rhaego struggled from her step-father’s arms and ran to Viserion, who abandoned her prize to sniff gently at the toddler.

Aegon picked up a roasted fig as Arianne approached the table, “why would the noble families burn down what little trees they had? It must have taken decades to grow them.”

“Many believed that when we refused to turn out our slaves, as Yunkai had, Dany would burn the city as she had Astapor,” Hizdahr explained. Ser Jorah had told Arianne that ‘Dany’ had been Viserys’ pet name for his sister, but where Hizdahr had heard it she did not know, “they would rather nothing be left for her to profit from.”

“Is that why your pyramid has its gardens yet?”

“My mother and brother wanted to burn them, but I refused,” he agreed, “it is good that I did, else we would have run out of peaches.”

“Here,” Arianne stepped around to the dragon queen and withdrew the silk and perfume, “gifts, for Haezzea.”

“Gifts? From who?” Daenerys asked, admiring the silk in her hands.

“The galley that Viserion ate her catch on, and the Lysene ship beside it,” Arianne looked to Hizdahr, “they will send other gifts too, fruit wines and tapestries. Those the queen likes they will be glad to sell more of.”

“The trade from the Free Cities has increased,” he nodded slowly, “and the Tyroshi make a lovely peach wine. I think you would like it, Radiance. Now let us hope they do not make me pay for their decks.”

“If they ask, we can have Drogon dirty them,” the queen looked up to see Arianne’s face and then beyond, “Rhaego,” she called suddenly, “come here.”

The little girl was sitting on Viserion’s wing while the dragon ate, chattering in Valyrian to the creature. That was not her mother’s concern. Rhaegal had risen from her nest as she rarely did these days and approached her sibling. At the sight of her, Viserion growled low in her throat, but did not retreat. Behind them Drogon rumbled darkly, but did not move to intervene. When Rhaegal came to close, Viserion moved backwards; having eaten most of the kill she did not think the rest was worth a fight.

Rhaego did not go with her.

She slid off of Viserion’s cream wing and stepped between the green and the corpse. Rhaegal allowed the girl to pet her muzzle before she bit into the remains of Viserion’s kill. Unlike her mother, Rhaego had no fear of the dragon. Rather than running to Daenerys she walked under Rhaegal’s body and down to her tail, to examine the nest that the green was so utterly possessive of.

Hizdahr stood to fetch her, but before he could pass Rhaegal’s head the dragon turned to snarl at him. Rhaego looked back to him, “look, kepa, eggs,” and then she was gone, sliding down into the nest.

Eggs?

Arianne looked at Aegon and he at her, and they followed as Daenerys went to fetch her daughter. Rhaegal sniffed at Daenerys, but although she growled again when Arianne tried to follow, she made no move to harm her mother. In a moment the queen was gone, after her daughter, and then Drogon roused himself. Never before had Rhaegal done anything other than slink back to her nest at her sibling’s approach, but today she drew herself up and hissed. Then she took flight.

How long had it been since the green left the courtyard? Four weeks at least, perhaps more. Arianne caught the hand that Aegon had fumbled at hers with and tugged him toward the nest. He kept his eyes on the green above then until he could not see her anymore, but Arianne’s attention was on the nest.

Blackened armor and burnt pig flesh and unidentifiable shimmering objects lay in the lair, large enough to hold Rhaegal easily, but smaller than it looked from afar. It smelt of smoke and brimstone, was carved half into and half under the pyramid, but that was not what drew her attention. In the very center Rhaego was sitting amid dirt-covered eggs, still slimy from their birthing, but in colors that only dragon eggs could be.

Daenerys held a silver egg with blue whorls and flecks. As she turned it, it shimmered. When she looked up she met Arianne’s eyes and neither woman had the words for this miracle. These eggs would not need blood magic to wake, they were not the silent stone of the ones that had been gifted to Daenerys on the Dothraki Sea. If Marwyn was right, these would hatch in some three years given enough exposure to the queen.

After a moment, Daenerys seemed to remember herself. She stood, the blue silk she wore dull and dim next to the egg, and handed the dark green egg with a golden maze over it’s scales to Hizdahr, who took it without a word. The other green egg was given to him as well, that one swirled with midnight black, but he only took it because Rhaego refused to let it go. Arianne collected the silver egg that was streaked with violet and the gold with black flecks; Aegon the red with gold flecks and the egg that was equal parts gold and silver with fiery veins running through it. The queen herself took the last egg, the one silver with blue whorls and flecks that she had not yet put down.

Together they retreated back to the table, to Drogon, and sat in silence to stare at the eggs.

Rhaego did not share their awe. She pushed herself out of her chair and took the dark green egg to her sister’s cradle. Little Haezzea did not know what it was, but she giggled when it was placed by her head. It made her look a true Targaryen, Arianne thought. Rhaego then climbed back into her chair to collect her own green egg, which she had allowed Hizdahr to hold for a short time.

“There have not been dragon eggs in a century,” Aegon mummered, turning the silver and gold egg over and over to look at the veins running through it.

“There have not been dragons in a century,” Quentyn noted. Viserion was still eating calmly from the carcass. Rhaegal had likely gone to find what remained of Drogon’s breakfast. The black himself was half-snoring beside the table.

“You must marry a woman who rides one of these,” Daenerys told Aegon, the Targaryens for once companions in their shock, “then his daughter can hatch eggs as well.”

“Few Westerosi women would dare,” Arianne reminded them.

“There must be some,” the queen gently turned Haezzea’s new egg to watch it ripple in the sunlight, “Targaryen women did so. When they are very small they will be less dangerous.”

“Drogon was not large when he burned the Undying,” Hizdahr said, “all dragons are dangerous.”

“Even so.”

“If our granddaughter is a dragon hatcher,” Aegon said, still looking at the egg he held, “then she must be named your heir. That is the only way to keep the dragons alive.”

“Westeros will never accept a daughter being named over a son. That is why Targaryens wed sister to brother for so many years,” someone had handed Quentyn an egg, the gold one, and although he spoke truth it still made Arianne’s blood rush. She straightened in her chair and looked up at Drogon, his maw still covered in the blood of the massive sea creatures he had devoured.

“There sits Balerion, the Black Dread, come again,” she echoed, “they can live in our new world or they can die in their old one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only person to request a POV wanted Arianne, so here we are :). 
> 
> Those fish-eaters are ichthyosaurs, something like Stenopterygius or Shonisaurus popularis. Like modern dolphins, they thrive in the bay, eating fish drawn to those ships. The larger creature that Drogon caught before is a young liopleurodon, drawn into the bay by the many ichthyosaurs. We wouldn't see the adult form or it's larger cousins until/unless the dragons take a sea voyage over open ocean when they're a little older. 
> 
> I'm willing to hear ideas on who you think the eggs will go to? I already have owners for these guys, but suggestions are welcome. Maybe we'll get more eggs.
> 
> Say goodbye to Meereen! We meet up with them very early in the sequel, though. I've been considering calling it 'Usurpers' as most everyone in the game is, these days. I mean, Tommen's a bastard, Stannis is lying* about his nephew, Daenerys' family was cast off the throne, Aegon may or may not be Rhaegar's son, Jon's a bastard, Roose is also a bastard, but in a different way, Robb's kid may or may not live and if it dies then Bran would be heir not his sister, Doran's plan for King Quentyn has a few holes, Margaery has no real claim to the throne. So on and so forth. Comments welcome!
> 
> Next chapter: Jaime (feat. Cersei)


	70. Kingslayer X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not ashamed of loving you.

4/15/302

Tyrion guided Myrielle to the fine seats before their father’s desk and arranged her in one, then took the other for himself. Jaime and Cersei had been held up by Tywin’s seething anger and were forced to sit in the only remaining chairs near the desk, those across the rooms from each other. On the table was a little green-and-gold vase with many closely-bundled yellow flowers. He only noticed it because he had never before seen flowers in his father’s study, but Myrielle had paused to admire them as Tywin settled behind the desk.

“Have you all gone mad?”

“You would believe the Stark girl over your own blood?” Tyrion had kept his mouth shut. Cersei had not. Her red skirts were messy in her anger, tangled tightly against her legs as she sat to reveal golden slippers to match the decorative breastplate she wore.

“The ‘Stark girl’ is my wife,” Jaime noted, “Sansa may have been too forward-”

“You think attempting to protect your heir is being too forward?

“Protect him from my sister?”

“Your sister has been banned from being alone with Princess Jocelyn,” Tywin answered calmly. On the other side of the room Jaime could feel Cersei’s fury without having to look, but Tyrion ignored her as easily as their father, “she had Robert’s bastards at the Rock smothered and sold their mother to a passing slaver and she refuses to acknowledge the girl as queen. Cersei refuses to acknowledge that Lady Sansa is Lady of Casterly Rock and that Princess Jocelyn is the proper heir, just as she refused to acknowledge her husband’s rights”

“Rights?” Cersei had hardly waited for their father to finish speaking, “what right did Robert have to whore himself out to whomever he pleased? You talk about Jaime’s bastard as if the child is a stain on the honor of House Lannister. You talk about Tyrion’s whoring as though  _ he _ is a stain on the honor of House Lannister. Yet when Robert disgraces us in the same manner you talk about my violation of his rights? If Jaime has no right to go whoring, what right does Robert have?”

“Robert is not my son, nor were his actions a matter of House Lannister. As the Baratheon king, he could do as he pleased,” Tywin paused to consider her, “the only one responsible for Robert’s whoring other than Robert is you. Is it any wonder that Stannis seized on the ill blood between you and the king to claim that your children were bastards? Had yours been a happy marriage few men would have blinked, but the war is evidence that some doubted that the king even came to your bed.”

“You would have me assaulted and abused to sooth those who thought that it was my fault and not Robert’s that he could not keep to one bed? He was whoring even when he was a boy, when his  _ precious Lyanna _ was alive. We all knew he would never love me as much as he loved her, what did you want from me?”

“I expected you to be a dutiful wife to Robert, to raise his children to be clever men, and to be thought competent enough that he would name  _ you _ as Joffrey’s regent and not a man he had not seen in a decade,” Tywin’s calm was more alarming than his anger had been earlier, “instead you made half the kingdom aware that he would never come to your bed, raised a madman to the throne, and had to be rescued from your own disaster by your brother.”

“I did not need rescue!”

“You did when I arrived,” Tyrion noted. 

Cersei turned on him, but before she could speak Tywin continued, “in the ninth month of this year you will marry your cousin Lancel and be Lady of Tarbeck Hall. You will bear him sons and keep his castle and the next time that Margaery finds you lurking over her daughter in the nursery or Lady Sansa finds you  _ nursing her son _ you will go there and you will not leave until the stones fall around your feet.”

“When Jaime married you said I would not have to! That was the agreement!”

“I said that we did not need more heirs, so you did not have to marry. I did not say I would not marry you if you could not control yourself.”

“So you sold me to  _ Lancel _ ? Out of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, why Lancel? How will selling me to my cousin make the rumors of incest  _ less _ likely?”

“I did not sell you to anyone. Lancel is getting a dowry of five hundred golden dragons to aid in the rebuilding of Tarbeck Hall,” Cersei seemed to stunned to say anything for an instant, and Jaime took the chance to interject.

“But marrying Cersei to her cousin will not help the rumors.”

“They will stop the rumors of her having bastards,” Tywin seemed to take this as an invitation to round him him, “and nevermind that you were newly married, what made you think that having a bastard would cull the rumors that you already had three?”

“My son was dead,” Cersei took the decanter of wine off of the table between Tyrion and Myrielle and retreated to her chair, “one whore can hardly be that great a crime.”

“I do not begrudge you the girl, but why did you not have her drink moon tea?” Jaime had to sit still a moment to take that in.

“I...did not think of it.”

“Do so next time,” Tywin snapped, “even your brother has that sense.”

Jaime had never actually thought of that either. Even so, he pushed it to the back of his mind to think on later, “any man could do that. Why Lancel specifically?”

“That, at least, was not my idea,” Tywin answered, “Lancel proposed the marriage, not I.”

“He did  _ what _ ?” the glass in Cersei’s hand shook. Tyrion looked over to her, and then across to Jaime. 

“If you would sooner marry Oberyn Martell, it can still be arranged,” Tywin settled back to look at Cersei.

“Tommen. I want Tommen.”

“Tommen is a page at the Rock and will be a squire at Parchments. When he is knighted he may come to visit you if he pleases. Perhaps before, if you act like a proper Lannister,” their father looked down to the parchment spread across his desk and frowned before continuing, “but before that, I would hear of what Lady Sansa speaks of. Does she lie?”

“She does not,” Tyrion said, “I saw it, as did Myrielle.”

“Lady Sansa does not lie,” Myrielle agreed, “I told her myself what I saw. Lady Cersei nearly dropped the child when we entered.”

Perhaps Myrielle was attempting to anger Tywin, for Sansa’s sake, but either way she had succeeded, “and do you deny it?”

“I was only holding the child!”

“No, you were not,” Tyrion deliberately flicked his gaze to her chest, “not unless you were holding him with your teats.”

“You-”

“And the allegations that Osney Kettleblack makes, about the child being his. Are those true?”

“Father,” Cersei drew herself up, “if I was to lie with a man it would not be with a knight so lowborn that some doubt he should be a knight at all.”

“Why would any man say he had lain with the queen if he had not? He claims that he wants his son. Did he force himself upon you? Many women have suffered similar actions.”

“It does not matter what pointless allegations that a Kettleblack makes,” Jaime interjected. He could see the calculations behind Cersei’s eyes, the honor she would lose in exchange for the sympathy and he did not like it. Too many had already died for this scheme of theirs, Lollys and the midwife and Lollys little babe, “the child is mine. His mother was some Kings Landing whore whose father or grandfather had been a Targaryen.”

“A Targaryen?” Tywin echoed, clearly baffled.

“The boy’s eyes,” Myrielle explained softly, “they are dark, dark purple.”

“Purple.”

“No Targaryen ever married into the Lannisters, even Rohanne Webber did not have violet eyes,” Jaime agreed, “Nor has any Kettleblack. Oswell is not even a proper lord, not even a landed knight, his only claim to power is that Petyr Baelish had named him castellan of a little castle within the Fingers of the Vale. His wife was a smallfolk from the same lands. Which of them claimed a Targaryen lineage?”

What was more likely, that a sworn sword raped the queen or that Jaime fucked a whore?

In the silence, Cersei found her voice first, “I would not lie willingly with a Kettleblack.” 

“Tyrion saw the woman too,” Jaime agreed quickly, “ask him.” 

His brother stared at him. Jaime knew that he had no right to ask that Tyrion help him, betraying Sansa in support of Cersei, but after a lingering look his brother spoke, “I brought Jaime the woman he requested after his son died, it is true. Her name was Jayde or Jeyne or something similar, black of hair and with pale green eyes, not Targaryen eyes, no, but not every Targaryen had violet eyes. Jaime wanted a woman and I sent for a woman. I did not see her at the Rock, but that does not mean that she was not the boy’s mother.”

Tywin fell silent for a moment, watching Tyrion. When he spoke he looked to Cersei, “you and Jaime will not be in the same room together without a witness. Tyrion, Lady Sansa, Mace Tyrell for all I care, someone to insure that no more rumors form.”

“Giving us a chaperone will not create more rumors?”

“They are laughing at us, do you not understand? Men believe that you slept with a Kettleblack and produced a bastard, that Jaime slept with a whore, that Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella are  _ both _ of your bastards. Whatever can be done to silence them must be done,” Tywin turned to Myrielle, “you will insure that Cersei does not find herself alone with Jerion, is that clear?”

“Father, you cannot think I would hurt the child,” Cersei protested, but when Tywin’s gaze came around her mouth snapped closed.

“You will make no attempt to see the children alone and you will be polite to Lady Sansa and Queen Margaery, as benefits your position. In five months, you will marry Lancel and may stay in Kings Landing so long as the queen has no objections,” then he turned to Jaime, “your sister is not to be invited to the Rock so long as Lady Sansa does not request her presence. You will insure that your wife remains happy and, more importantly, pregnant.”

“For how long?”

“The Rock needs a heir, as does the North,” Tywin answered flatly, “and any girl will be wed to Edmure Tully’s heir or perhaps to her cousin Robert Arryn.”

“Then we would just need a pair for Asha Greyjoy and Arianne Martell’s heirs and we would have a complete set,” Tyrion observed.  

“Dorne has Myrcella. If Doran Martell has the sense of a hedge knight he will marry Myrcella’s babe to Arianne’s eldest and bind Dorne further to the crown. And the Iron Islands is hardly a kingdom. I will not sacrifice another Lannister maid for their sake,” Tywin shook his head, “go and attempt to act like Lannisters. I expect you all present at dinner.”

Jaime went. On his way out he heard Myrielle’s soft acknowledgement, “these are lovely      marigolds, my lord.”

“They are Margaery’s.”

“What is she grateful for?”

“...pardon?”

“Marigolds mean gratitude.”

“...flowers have meanings?”

“Yes, my lord.”

As Jaime turned to step into the hall Tywin exited the room close behind. Tyrion kept pace with him, his hand wrapped around Myrielle’s. Jaime offered the girl his arm on her other side and like this they walked through the familiar halls of the Red Keep. As they came up the stairs near the finest guest rooms he decided that if Tywin welcomed Myrielle into their incest discussions she could be trusted to keep other secrets as well, “why would Lancel ask for Cersei’s hand?”

His brother did not answer for a long moment, “I would say,” he said at last, “that it is more likely that Cersei slept with Lancel, than she did with Kettleblack.”

That had to process for a moment. He knew Tyrion thought that Robert Hill was a Kettleblack bastard, knew it because Tyrion had told him so when he asked and pressed. Jaime did not know what to think. Tyrion always thought the worse of Cersei because Cersei thought the worst of him. It was a cycle that had been going on since they were children. But if Tyrion thought that Cersei had slept with Kettleblack, and was more certain that she had slept with Lancel…

“Why do you think so?”

Tyrion knocked loudly on Sansa’s door, and Jaime opened it to permit Myrielle entrance, “I will see you for dinner?”

“I will wear that seafoam dress you like,” she agreed, and shut the door behind her.

For a moment they stood like that, listening to the giggling inside Sansa’s rooms and the laugh of a baby. When at last Tyrion turned to him his brother was quiet and sober, “Cersei sent him to me when I was yet Hand, to demand I release Pycelle from the Black Cells. I asked him what thought Joffrey will do when told that Lancel murdered his father to bed his mother.”

Any man would fear the young king before Tywin had returned to the city, Tyrion could have lied to the boy and still gotten his results. Yet Tyrion would not lie to him. The only other lie between them... Jaime bit his tongue. No, best not to remind anyone of that. HIs father wanted to talk of shame on their house, what had that been? Lying to his elder son, beating the younger, raping a little girl. He put that thought away too.

“Cersei would not do that. She loves me.”

“I discussed whores and paramours with Myrielle once,” Tyrion said, when he could look Jaime in the face, “she believes that a woman has no right to her body. First it belongs to her father, but he cannot bed her and so she must remain celibate. Then it belongs to her husband, and she has no say over what is or can be done with her. That is why the rape of a woman is a slight against her family, more than she herself.”

“You think Cersei fucked her cousin out of rebellion against Robert?” she’d born him three children, how much more of a rebellion could be had?

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she simply prefered a poor mirror of you in her bed rather than sleeping alone.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“If you want to know, you must ask Cersei.”

“You do not think I should.”

“I think you still love Cersei.”

“How could I not love her? I have loved her all my life, I am her and she is me.”

“Would Cersei leave her children for you? Abandon Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella to run away with you? Would she have when Robert was alive and she was bruised and bloody? Would she now?”

No. How many times had he asked and been refused? How many times had he begged, before her marriage to Robert, before Joffrey’s birth, after, and every day in between until he knew the answer before it left his tongue, before he started not asking. He had nothing to say and Tyrion had no answers, and the brothers left each other like that. Jaime returned to his rooms to sit and stare unseeingly at the wall. Through the wall, he thought he heard Sansa’s laughter.

This is how Jaime gets through the welcoming feast: wearing Lannister red-and-gold with a leather harness hidden under his clothes to hold on his gold hand with nails of pearl. He smiles when he should smile, laughs when others do, and dances round and round with red-cloaked Sansa and Queen Margaery and scowling Cersei and golden Myrielle and sweet Roslin and half a hundred women. He eats honeyed pork and roasted duck and buttered potatoes and all of them taste like ash in his mouth. His hands are cold, but when he looks down one is gold and the other only has sensation when he holds Sansa’s hand. She is frightened, his little wife, and Tyrion is too, but Jaime hardly notices save to pat her hand and nodded unhearingly at his brother.

Cersei would never betray him.

Too early, he leaves the feast. Myrielle and Tyrion will see to Sansa, and Cersei can take care of herself. His rooms are cold and dark, but he does not want to explain to his page what he wants. Instead he searches out the firewood and lights it with a flint, waking the flames into a blaze. When it is done it does not have will to get up, only sits and watches it burn. No one will interrupt, Sansa was laughing with Myrielle and Cersei dancing with Tommen when he left. It had been their first dance. He does not know how long he sits there, alone with the fire, but when at last he looks up he starts.

A woman stood before him.

She was dressed like a maid in a plain roughspun cloak, badly dyed in mottled browns but neatly trimmed and sewn.. A hood concealed her face, but he could see the candles dancing in the green pools of her eyes, and when she moved he knew her.

“Cersei.” He spoke slowly, like a man waking from a dream, still wondering where he was. “What hour is it?” 

“The hour of the wolf.” His sister lowered her hood, and made a face. “The drowned wolf, perhaps.” She smiled for him, so sweetly. “Do you remember the first time I came to you like this? It was some dismal inn off Weasel Alley, and I put on servant’s garb to get past Father’s guards.” 

“I remember. It was Eel Alley.” She wants something of me.“Why are you here, at this hour? What would you have of me?” He hoped that Sansa was asleep in her rooms, that the walls were thick and that she was not lingering by a candle. As he looked at Cersei, for a moment he dared to hope that all she wanted was the comfort of his arms. 

“Speak softly.” Her voice sounded strange...breathless, almost frightened. “Jaime, I spoke to father, alone, again, in private. He refuses to see reason. You must speak with him.”

“Speak with him?”

“I will not marry Lancel, Jaime. It is you I love, not him,” she stepped into the light of the fire, her hair spun silk, loose and wild, her green eyes shining in the light.

_ If you want to know, you should ask Cersei. _

Tyrion voice, so clear that Jaime looked to the door to find him. He was a knight, a Kingsguard. Cersei would never betray him. “Why would Lancel ask for your hand?”

“What does it matter why?”

“Did you fuck him?” His own words surprised him. He had not meant to ask it like that, but there it was, hanging between them in the air, heavy and threatening. Suddenly, Jaime did not want to know. 

“Who told you such a thing?” she demanded, eyes darkening in the flame. Tyrion, she thought. Jaime knew his sister too well to wonder otherwise.

“Lancel,” he lied. For a moment it hung between them. Her head tilted up and fire lit her eyes and he thought she would accuse him of the lie. She inhaled to do so, and then deflated.

Cersei would never betray him.

“I did not mean to hurt you, Jaime, truly,” she admitted, her voice soft, “but you were gone and Robert came to my bed and… I did not want to be alone afterwards. You have done it too, whores and smallfolk maids, you kept it quieter than I, it seems, but you are not innocent in this.”

“Robert’s mother never existed,” his voice was little more than a rasp.

“Robert’s? No, Jaime, you were away for months at a time, in the Westerlands, the Vale, the Riverlands. Are you saying you never…?”

“Never,” his voice broke. No, he would not weep in front of this woman. Why would she? Time and time again she had sought him, they were one body one soul, she slept in his arms and he trusted her. How…?

“Jaime, please, be reasonable,” she pleaded, suddenly alarmed, “our son needs you. The Tyrells would steal his crown from his head and father does not see it. You must-

“Tommen is no son of mine, no more than Joffrey was.” His voice was hard. Father was right. She wanted the princess dead. Did Cersei know how dead princesses looked? He knew. Little Rhaenys had been sweet and kind and had bled and bled and bled. Even when he covered her in his cloak the red could not hide the blood. “You made them Robert’s too.”

His sister flinched. “You swore that you would always love me. It is not loving to make me beg.” 

Jaime could smell the fear on her. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, to bury his face in her golden curls and promise her that no one would ever hurt her. How could she? He had loved her. He loved her still, damn him. “No,” he said. “I cannot. Will not.” 

“I need you. I need my other half.” She was crying. “You are me, I am you. I need you with me. In me. Please, Jaime. Please.” 

“Get out.” he said, his voice near breaking again. He sounded harsher than he had hoped and he found solace in that, “Out. You lied to me. Betrayed me.”

Tyrion had too; hidden Cersei’s lover to keep Jaime in blissful ignorance. His fury died in his belly, had he not lied to Tyrion as well? To keep him safe. Tywin would have killed him if he continued acting as he had, over that little peasant girl. His wife, Tyrion would say, his wife. Jaime did not even remember her name, but Tyrion would. Why else would he be so protective of Sansa or Myrielle? 

Cersei wiped her tears away on a ragged brown sleeve. “I was a fool to come. I was a fool ever to love you.” She jerked her hood up angrily and retreated as silently as she had come. 

When she was gone he stumbled back. His back collided with a wall and he slid down it, shaking. How could she? Why would she? Jaime had not cried in many years, but the tears threatened now. He lowered his head into his hands and tried to understand. He was still there when the gentle knock sounded. 

There was a door knob just above his head.

Cursing, Jaime crawled to his feet and prayed that it was not Sansa. It was. His little wife wore only a red silk gown, her eyes blue pools in his fire, but she had not come asking, “Jaime, I heard a sound. Is everything all right?”

“Lancel-” Jaime did not have words to explain. Even if he did, why would Sansa care? She had every right to hate him. He was half surprised that she had not informed Tywin of his indiscretions and had him packed off before anything else could come of it, “-Cersei- I do not- you should not-”

He took a step back to clear his head, and Sansa slipped through the door. She closed it firmly behind her and set the latch into place. On silent feet she fed the fire and returned to him, wrapping her hand into his in the way Tyrion and Myrielle did. Gently, she led him to the bed and knelt to tug off his shoes. Once that was done she pulled back the blankets and urged him into them, settling herself beside him. When her warm body was settled next to his, pliant in his arms, hands soft and gentle, something broke inside his chest.

Jaime hardly felt the tears. 

When he had regained some resemblance of control he realized that he was crushing his wife in his arms, her red hair sprawled about both their pillows and their bodies, her breathing shallow and smooth, one of his hands was wrapped over the blankets as his fingers brushed the fabric of her gown, the other was under the gown against her warm skin.

“I- I’m sorry.” He managed.

“I am sorry too,” Sansa nuzzled under his chin and held him tighter.

“What did you do?” Perhaps Jerion was Tyrion’s son. He would deserve that.

“You loved Cersei.”

“I should have loved you.”

“I thought such too, when I was Ned Stark’s little girl,” Sansa said, “but there is no  _ should _ in  _ I love _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very happy with all the goodbyes to Arianne and the thoughts on the news eggs. We'll have names for most of them soon. Mostly Targaryen and dragon names, I think.
> 
> Jaime's final chapter, so it least it ends on a high (?) note. We do see more Lannisters, so don't despair. Sorry the chapters a bit late! I'm getting stuck on Asha's timeline in the sequel. It's not lining up right with Dany's, but we're getting there.
> 
> Poor Jaime, though. And poor Cersei. They are both such beautiful messes and end up inflicting themselves on each other. Sansa had Ned and Cat and all her siblings. What did Jaime and Cersei have but each other? Joanna dead, Tywin cold, Tyrion much younger than they were. The world created a mess of them and they made it worse on themselves and on each other. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Tyrion (feat Genna?)


	71. The Imp VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where do whores go?

6/12/302

The letter lay innocently against the red mahogany of the side table. 

He had been offered no better place, so he had ordered a stool brought for the candles to sit on and filled it with the business of the Rock. Most of the letters were passed to him from Jaime, some all-important question that simply could not wait until he was back at the Rock and out of his father’s reach. Jaime had a solar. Did Tywin think that Jaime was doing all this paperwork?

This one, though, was from Sansa, written in a Northerner's precise hand and smelling slightly of lavender. She had given it to Myrielle that morning in the garden, and Myrielle had passed it along at lunch. It was fairly common for Sansa to sort through the things Jaime received in any given day and bring him the ones that were not hers to answer. Yet Sansa was not asking him to handle this for Jaime, she was asking him to sign in Jaime’s place.

A letter to the Citadel. It was not an abnormal request from a noble house, many sent sons and cousins and even clever smallfolk to the Citadel to be trained. Oberyn Martell had studied there for a time, as had Leyton Hightower when he was still a third son of House Hightower and heir to nothing. Even the Starks in the North had sent a few of these letters, for some eager child or loyal servant. This was not that. 

When he opened the thin raven-parchment to sign it, a slip of paper fell out. Therein, Sansa outlined what he would be doing if he signed this for her, what cost he could pay. Let it never be said that Sansa sent men to their deaths without them knowing it. Joy was a clever child, but her bright blonde hair was noticeable, her face was small and delicate, her breasts had already begun to form. If Tywin ever discovered this, it would be Tyrion he would blame, not sweet, stupid Sansa. How his father had not yet noticed that Sansa was as cunning as any Lannister was beyond him. 

The girl had Varys over for tea twice a week, for Seven’s sake.

Tyrion did not know what he should do with it. The fire was tempting, but something made him hesitate to destroy the evidence. Few people trusted him enough to ask for such favors. Even fewer would have told him why this was a favor and not simply a normal request. If he did not sign it, someone else would. Sansa would have her way eventually, there were a pair of lion cubs in the Keep to evidence that. After several minutes more of examining the paper, Tyrion decided that it was not important to finish this now. Dinner was in some half hour, so he folded the parchment back into itself and tucked it into the stack of things on the table, then collected the missive to burn in a candle. That, at least, would prevent anyone else from discovering her request. 

When he reached the upper floor where dinner was being held, he found himself wondering if this had all been planned so that Olenna Tyrell did not have to put the princess down. Sansa and Myrielle were nowhere to be seen, but Roslin had joined the queen and her companions in fussing over the child. Jaime and Tywin were seated on the opposite end of the table, talking about the make of one sword or another. Upon noticing his brother, Jaime fumbled to unbuckle his sword belt and turned it to show him, “here, look.”

It took only an instant for Tyrion to determine what the sword was. It was barely out of its sheath, the metal shimmering strangely in the light, “Valyrian steel. Where did you get this, father?” And why would he give it to Jaime? Tywin had eyes, did he not see that Jaime had no hand?

“From Eddard Stark’s greatsword,” Tyrion turned it carefully.

“The greatsword that you returned to his son?”

“I promised them his bones and sword, I did not say  _ which _ sword. Lord Eddard had many in the tower.”

“And none of the Starks have questioned why they no longer have a Valyrian greatsword?”

“The one I returned was a passable mimicry,” Tywin admitted, although his voice never changed, “I expect that in the excitement of having their lord buried, they hung the greatsword in it’s place and looked little at it.”

Then he had not returned Ned Stark’s sword at all. There was no reason for the Lord of Winterfell to be carrying around a passable imitation of the sword he owned an actual copy of. Tyrion decided not to say that, least of all because the Tyrells were a few feet away, “have you named, it, then?”

“Oathkeeper,” Jaime answered, “I thought it fitting.”

For a Lannister?

Tyrion was saved from his reply by the entrance of Sansa and her ladies. Cersei was not among them, which was odd as she was not with the queen either, but Tyrion doubted that either of them minded that she was missing. Sansa curled into the seat beside Jaime, her son giggling and trying to pull on her hair, while Genna sat beside Tyrion, “a lovely sword, Tyrion.”

“It belongs to Jaime,” he answered, sheathing it and offering it back to his brother.

“Did you decide what to do with the other one?” Tyrion glanced up at her, but she was looking past him, “I presume you decided against giving it to the Dayne boy?”

“Best it remains in Lannister hands,” Tywin agreed mildly, “Jerion may carry it when he is old enough. Edric is only just a squire and already skilled with a sword, perhaps he will hold Dawn one day. We would not want to confuse him.”

“Confuse the king?” Genna scoffed.

“Most men are like that,” Olenna Tyrell agreed, from Margaery’s end of the table, “tell them to pick between two swords and they get emotional. Deciding what son to send to war, though, that they can do.”

By all accounts - mostly Sansa’s, gleaned from Seven knows where - Genna and Olenna made quite the pair in the rose queen’s court. They were not quite friends, no, never that, but they shared an odd sense of camaraderie. The press of the newcomers saw the queen’s ladies filter into their chairs. Cerenna chose one beside Lady Leonette, while Myrielle sat on her other side with Roslin, nearer to Sansa. Tyrion had to suppress a smile when he noticed that Desmera Redwyne, of all people, had stolen the seat next to Sansa. 

“Most sons are sent to war, grandmother,” Margaery pointed out. The little queen wore a gown of dark Tyrell green, something she had never dared when Joffrey still lived. It was not cut quite so deep as those she had worn when Tyrion was last in Kings Landing, but her crown was still that of stag’s horns and roses with their thorns.

The Queen of Thorned scoffed, adjusting her great-granddaughter in her arms, but Cerenna seemed not to notice, “may all our sons be great knights.”

“May all our sons live through their wars,” Margaery agreed. Tyrion had to wonder if she would look at Lannister sons so fondly as she did her Baratheon daughter.

“May all our sons never know war,” Sansa said, “the realm has had too much of it.”

His sister’s gown was of blazing Lannister red, it's fine embroidery featuring lions in gold. She had spent most of her morning at court, he knew, and at court she must be a lioness. The nobles that had once whispered behind her back had come begging, admiring her son and husband, mentioning fosterlings and marriages, complimenting her gowns and her station, and Sansa had shown them the mercy she had learnt from Cersei. More than one Crownlands lady had fled from court in recent days, shunned by Sansa’s ladies and Margaery’s alike. The queen needed Sansa’s favor more than she needed theirs.

This was how dinner passed, Jaime and Tywin discussing the make of their new prize between the steaming smoked pork; Margaery and Sansa and their ladies laughing over their children; and Myrielle pushing peas around her plate while her sister laughed with Lady Leonette. Tyrion wondered that she had not returned to Sansa, but his wife was an adult who could take care of herself.

Joy was not.

She was Lannister-born, yes, but a bastard as well. Perhaps she could serve as a maid, but she would never sit at the queen’s table. Female bastards were relegated to the Faith or lives as smallfolk, but it was only Joy’s gender that kept her from the Citadel, not her birth. For many years, they had expected Tywin to do as his brother had asked and find her a lord to marry. After the war, the idea of her marrying a Westerling had been floated about, but nothing had come of it. Tyrion would never have agreed had Joy’s protest been to a comfortable live with a husband and children, but even he had been given the choice to not become a maester or a septon or a watchman.

Sansa’s bastard brother would rise higher than Joy ever could.

Someone handed Tyrion corn to go with the pork, but he found he had no interest in eating. Sansa would say that it was not fair, but he knew that she did not believe her own words. She had become a protector of the women of the Rock of late. When Clegane had taken a fancy to a kitchen maid it had been Sansa who took the girl - a peasant of no noble blood - as her personal maid. When the daughter of a farmer came to their court weeping because her uncle had stolen her inheritance, it was Sansa who demanded he come to court and Sansa who gave him the choice between the Wall and his head. When a battered old woman came to court with her newborn grandson and claimed that it was the son of one of the Young Wolf’s men, it was Sansa who gave her gold to raise the boy and told her to bring the boy back to court when he was of age to be a page. Sansa was not required to do any of that. She did it because she had the ability too, and wanted to better the lives of those who did not. 

Life would never be fair, but sometimes they could make it so.

How she planned to hide in communal sleeping quarters, how she intended to cut her prized hair short, how she meant to be a man and not a little girl he did not know. That did not mean she should not deserve the choice any more than his dwarfism meant he should not have been allowed to tour the Free Cities. Tyrion stabbed a pea and stared at it. After a moment, it fell off the end of his fork and back to his plate. It was then that someone nudged him sharply. He looked up to find his aunt frowning down at him. She too had worn red tonight, but it was not so bright as Sansa’s, “stop sulking.”

“You must have me confused with Emmon, aunt,” Tyrion put his fork down and observed the hall. It had emptied quickly, or perhaps he had been too consumed with his thoughts to realize, “and where is my dear uncle?”

“I had not seen him in weeks before I left the Rock, and not since,” Genna scowled, “before I thought he feared Tywin. Now I think he fears Lady Sansa. I am not sure if that is better or worse.”

“To fear a wolf maid instead of the lions?”

“Do you know why the Tullys ruined the Freys?”

“Because the Freys were rebellious, as the Reynes were,” that was the answer Edmure had given when he did it, at least, along with a hefty amount of gold for Joffrey’s blessing.

“Some say that,” Genna agreed, “Olenna Tyrell thinks it is because Walder Frey was plotting with the Lannisters to kill the Young Wolf.”

“...was he?”

“Were we?”

“How would Olenna know?”

“One of their cousins is married to a Frey girl. It is my understanding that they spoke for some of the older children, and took them in rather than allowing them to be sent to the Wall.”

“You think they found out? From who?”

“Who knows? Unfaithful Freys? Slippery Tyrells? Lannisters?”

“What Lannister soldier would tell them?” Genna stared at him a long moment, and he realized what she left unsaid. Who she would protect, “and for that you think that Emmon fears Sansa?”

“She cannot hurt us and she knows that. The girl is many things, and too soft hearted by half, but not stupid,” Genna shook her head, “Myrielle is good at hearing things. Perhaps things she should not hear, but she is so quiet and polite and small, how could she be a danger? She is a Lannister, she is a safe witness. And everything that Myrielle hears she tells Sansa. What was it you said? The Wolf Maid. If she cannot have the Lannisters, she would have the Freys. Do you think I cared enough about Emmon to stop her? Unlike Cersei, I know how to hold my tongue. Tywin would not need to ship me off to some cousin to keep me from ruining his plans.”

“You think sweet Sansa Stark would murder your husband?”

“I think Emmon was a fool and Sansa has had enough of being pushed,” Genna considered him again, “but you are not sulking over Sansa. Unless you are.”

“I quite like  _ my _ lady wife, thank you,” he replied, “no, I was only thinking of Joy.”

“Joy,” Genna was suddenly sober again. Tyrion pushed himself from his chair, left his half-eaten food to the maids, and waddled toward the door.

“Yes, aunt, Uncle Gerion’s bastard. Or had you forgotten?”

Genna sighed heavily, “I have not forgotten. She leaves for the sept in, what, a fortnight?”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed, “do not despair, aunt. She will return in seven years. Your grandchildren will call her their septa.”

“Gerion wanted her to be a lady.”

“Gerion wanted to rescue Brightroar,” something in Tyrion’s chest twisted with the words. “Perhaps he should have stayed to insure she was made one.”

“A fortnight,” Genna mused. She was rarely so quiet. It almost made him nervous, “Tyrion, we must speak of Joy.”

Sansa would not have told her? Myrielle, yes, but Genna?

“What of her?”

“Not here. Come, the walls have ears.” Tyrion had expected her to lead him upstairs, to Jaime’s solar or to her room or his. Instead she went to the gardens. It was dark outside, but torches lined the main corridor and Genna stole one of those on their way. The night easily overwhelmed it, but she seemed to know where she was going. Tyrion followed through the twisting hedges and sweeping branches and strange vines trying to strangle benches. 

Eventually they came to the godswood, although how Genna had found it in this darkness was beyond him. Around the edges of the weirwood’s alcove roses grew heavy and beautiful in the flickering light of the torch. Genna hesitated as they entered, then went to the weirwood’s bloody face, “why are we here, aunt?”

“The Red Keep has ears and eyes in her walls,” Genna replied, “but even Varys has little reason to stalk the godswood this late. Lady Sansa will not come tonight.”

“And what is such a secret?” the light poured over him as she turned.

“Do you remember when Joy was born?”

“No one remembers when Joy was born,” she had not been born at the Rock, that was certain. Some men thought that Gerion had impregnated the Lysene woman in Lys and discovered his daughter on the way back. Others thought that Gerion had been so taken with the beauty of a bed slave that he purchased her and brought her back to Lannisport, where she had given birth. Tyrion personally prefered the theory that Gerion had loved Briony so much that he wanted to bring a peasant girl from Lys back to the Rock as his paramour.

“What do you remember?” If Sansa had told her, would Genna support lying to Tywin to send Joy to the Citadel?

“Only what we all do. Gerion presented father with his bastard and her mother, and Tywin allowed them to stay in the Lannisport manor. When Gerion vanished, father insured they lived as benefits those with Lannister blood. After Briony fell ill and died, Tywin summoned Joy to the Rock to live as a Lannister until she came of age,” Tyrion studied his aunt’s face. She almost looked frightened, yet fierce. If Cersei was a lioness then Genna was  _ the _ lioness.

“Briony was not Joy’s mother,” she said at last, “only her wet nurse.”

“Gerion told father that Briony was her mother,” Tyrion argued, “why would he lie?”

“For you.” Genna’s voice was as soft as the breeze flickering through the godswood.

Her words answered none of Tyrion’s questions, only created more. “What do you mean, ‘for me’? How is anything related to Briony done for me?”

“Briony is not Joy’s mother, Tyrion. Her mother died on Gerion’s ship when he was near Lys. He found a woman who had lost her babe to be Joy’s wet nurse, and he paid Briony with gold and a home and a daughter to lie about the circumstances of Joy’s birth.” Genna stared at him with unblinking green eyes.

“Then who was her mother?”

“The girl Tysha.”

Tyrion’s world ground to a halt. Tysha, blue eyes and black hair. Tysha smiling and laughing, crying with cracked sobs that faded to a low wail and then left altogether. His little wife, who loved him because he was  _ Tyrion _ and not a Lannister. She loved him, she wed him, she trusted him. He was thrown back into their few happy weeks, into her laugh and her cooking. That lasted only a moment. The wail lasted longer, mixed with his broken sobs and the laughter of his father’s guards.  _ She was only a whore, Tyrion. I am sorry, I did not know she would do what she did.  _ Jaime’s voice invaded his thoughts, and Tyrion latched onto it lest he fall apart.

“A whore,” he managed, voice a rasp even to him, “Jaime said she was a whore.”

“You would know,” Genna answered, “was she a maiden when you wed her?”

“There are maiden whores.” Tyrion had avoided them intentionally. Save for Tysha and Myrielle, he had never had an untouched woman.

“Even so, the babe is hers.”

“There is no way to know the father,” he was holding himself together with very little. Would his aunt laugh if he began crying in the godswood? “Father was right, he said…”

“I did not approve of you marrying a peasant girl,” Genna never spoke lies to him. She said what she thought, no matter how rough the truth may be. That made his heart hurt more. Tyrion set his torch on the stone bench where it could not start a fire if he dropped it, “but I did not approve of what Tywin did either. You do not have to think the girl is yours, but what Gerion did he did for you.”

“I asked father where she went. He said ‘ _ wherever whores go.’ _ ”

“Gerion never told your father.”

“Why would he tell you? Why would he not…” Tyrion had to stop before he started sobbing.

“He told me because I threatened to tell Tywin,” Genna answered. Her voice had not softened, but that she was willing to tell him more told Tyrion that she understood his pain. His aunt did not share secrets lightly, “the day after that incident he set sail unexpectedly. Tywin thought he was angry, but when I searched for the girl I could not find her. He came back a year later with a Lysene woman and a girl with Lannister hair and Lannister eyes. What was I to think?”

“He was a Lannister. Joy has his eyes.”

“Joy has your eyes,” Genna replied, “and you have my father’s, like Tywin and Gerion.”

“Why-” Tyrion turned away from the tree, to look into the garden. He tried somewhat desperately to contain himself, to not shame himself by crying over a whore, “why would you look for  _ Tysha _ ?”

“To prevent a Lannister child from being cast out into the world,” Genna answered, “the child may be a dubious bastard, but it would be a Lannister bastard nonetheless. Your father was not wrong in what he did, but it was too sharp a lesson. I wanted to save what I could.”

“What happened to her?”

“Tysha? She birthed the babe aboard the  _ Laughing Lion _ in the second month of 288, off of Lys. When she recovered enough to walk she threw herself off the ship and into the sea in a storm. Gerion never found her.”

_ Wherever whores go. _

They went to the sea, apparently. Tyrion wanted to weep. Joy was not a bastard any more than he was. He was a dwarf, she the daughter of a peasant, but... _ Gerion wanted her to be a lady. _ He had tried to protect Tysha’s daughter, even though they were not sure she was even a Lannister. Gerion’s eyes, Joy’s eyes, Tyrion’s eyes. Even if she was a whore, Tysha had never asked him for anything.  _ Tyrion, I am sorry. _

“Gerion said this?”

“Yes. He swore me to silence, but he is dead and you are not. I thought you should know before she is sent to the sept.” Genna shook her head solemnly. “I should not have told you.”

“No, no, thank you.” Tyrion gripped the cold of the bench with one hand, the icy feeling piercing into his senses and bringing him back from the memories. “I will be fine. I- thank you.”

“I am not saying the girl was not a whore,” Genna clarified, “only that Joy is a Lannister. Gerion believed her to be, and so she is.”

Then she left him alone, in that cold, dark godswood with Sansa’s gods and the distant flicker of torches in the garden. They said the Seven had made him a dwarf, and thus Tyrion rarely prayed. He looked up to the weirwood’s face, blood-sap streaming from it’s eyes. His own face was wet as well, and although he did not know his way back he was grateful that Genna had left him. 

There was a letter on his side table that spoke of Sansa’s faith in the girl. Gerion’s lies and Genna’s truths told their tale. His shoulders were shaking in great, wracking sobs. He thought of Myrielle’s sweet smile as she spoke of naming their children, of the light in her eyes at the sight of Castamere’s towers rebuilt. He imagined Tysha in her birthing bed, all alone; Tysha throwing herself off the side of the  _ Laughing Lion _ ; Tysha’s smiles and soft hands; her wail and broken sobs. A crofter's daughter should not die at sea. His father’s voice rang in his ears.

_ Wherever whores go. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions you may have:
> 
> Why is this so late? I'm interviewing for a promotion at work! Less time to write, but if I get it I'll be paid a LOT more. Should be back to writing speed after the interviews and anxiety over that smooth out. Also, world building. I told you it distracts me!
> 
> Is Brightroar going to be featured? Maybe. I'll look into it in that world building I mentioned.
> 
> Why have you inflicted this upon us? For the feels, and because, although I doubt the prospect in canon, it is an interesting theory. Timeline fits. Tyrion was born in 273 (I picked October for the fic), he met Tysha when he was 13 (between 10/286-10/287), Tysha became pregnant in 5/287, Joy was born 2/288.
> 
> Next Chapter: Mystery POV (it's actually half-written while I suffered writers block with this chapter)


	72. She-Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow Arya will become a Bolton.

The babe was two days old when Jeyne saw fit to summon her mother.

Arya did not think that anyone had ever summoned Catelyn anywhere, even when she was a girl. In her mind, her mother was fierce and beautiful and powerful, and, indeed, the woman who came up the stairs had a straight spine, a solemn face, and was draped in the colors of House Stark. Her auburn hair was pulled back, out of her face, to reveal her tired blue eyes. Jeyne was barely able to get out of bed after the long birth, but for this she had had her ladies arrange her in a chair with the newborn babe in her arms.

Mother shut the door quietly behind her and came to stand near the hearth, “congratulations.” She sounded tired, and she did not look at Arya.

“Lyra tells me that you have decided, unilaterally and without authority, to marry Arya to Roose Bolton,” Jeyne wore a white nightgown that was too bright against her dark skin, her chestnut-blonde hair was unbrushed and wild over her shoulders, and she could not stand while holding her babe for fear of falling. Her voice, though, was sharper than Arya had ever heard her before.

“That is what you ask me the moment I get to see my grandchild?” the edge crept into Mother’s voice, the one she had when the septa was being too harsh on the girls, or when she thought that Robb was being trained too hard, “you do not want to discuss names or fosterings or marriages? You only want to scold me for _my_ marriage plans for _my_ daughter?”

“You were born of Riverrun, not Winterfell. You had a right to decide Arya’s future only so long as the head of House Stark approved. First that was Lord Eddard, then Robb, and now me. You have betrayed us, Lady Catelyn, and you will be lucky if I do not send you back to Riverrun before this storm is out.”

“I betrayed you? You were not born in Winterfell either, you are a Westerling of the Westerlands,” Mother drew herself up, “whatever right you have, I have. We are both widows of Stark lords.”

“That is not how succession works, and you know that, every Riverlander would,” Jeyne looked up from the babe, “you may have ruined us all.”

“By securing the loyalty of the Boltons?” Mother stepped closer to Jeyne, and Lyra tensed. Behind mother Brienne reached for her own sword, but neither of the widows seemed to notice the tension, “you are a stupid girl if you do not think that marriage can purchase alliances.”

“What kind of alliance is this? You traded the last daughter of their beloved Eddard Stark for what?”

“House Bolton is the third most powerful house in the North, perhaps the second depending on the state of White Harbor at the moment. You said yourself that he was gathering allies; now those men are our men.”

“I meant to see Arya fostering in the Vale,” Jeyne cradled her babe closer to her chest, “perhaps even wed to her cousin Robert Arryn if they became close during that time. House Arryn is an ancient and noble house, and has the entirety of the Vale behind it. What is House Bolton compared to that?”

“...you never told me that.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything. I don’t have to tell you anything,” Jeyne snapped back, undeterred by Mother’s sudden deflation, “I am the Lady Regent of House Stark. I promised Arya that she could chose her husband and you have made a liar of me. How do you think Lord Petyr and Lady Lysa will react when I tell them that a marriage to Arya is no longer a possibility? Or Lord Nestor when I tell him that Arya will not be going to foster with him?”

“I do not want to marry Roose Bolton or Robert Arryn,” Arya interjected. She did not want to foster at the Vale either, but that would be better than being married off. Perhaps she could even train with her cousin.

“You would not want to marry the Warrior himself,” Mother shook her head, “for all my efforts you refuse to be a lady. Perhaps a husband and children will do what I could not.”

“I do not _want_ a husband! Or children! I do not even like children, all they do is scream and cry!” Arya had spent enough time around Snow to know that, and if Jon’s child woke screaming on quiet nights, what would hers be like? She hoped she never found out.

Jeyne was watching her with her great brown eyes, “do you want to be a septa, then? Or a Silent Sister?”

“No? I follow the Old Gods, not the Seven. Why would I want to be a septa?”

“Women have few paths in this world,” Jeyne answered gently, “those who do not want to to marry usually follow the path of the Faith.”

“I do not want to be a wife or a mother or a septa,” Arya could not scold little girls with clumsy hands or spend her days praying. “I want to be a warrior, like Father.”

“Women are not warriors,” Mother stated firmly. Jeyne made no move to contradict her, “you will do your duty to your house. The Boltons are an ancient and noble house, and you will be well cared for. You could do far worse in a husband.”

“Brienne is a warrior,” the woman had not flinched at Mother’s declaration, but now she looked to her lady. Mother refused to meet her eyes, “why can I not be like her?”

“You are the daughter of a lord paramount,” Jeyne said softly. Arya knew she was sorry for what Mother had done, that she would try to change it, but she did not understand. If it was left up to Arya to choose a husband, she would never marry.

“Brienne is a daughter of Lord Tarth, nearly as highborn as I am,” Mother had not looked to her sworn shield. Brienne was blushing now, but Arya pressed her point, “if she can be a knight, why can I not be one?”

“It is your duty to House Stark,” Mother repeated.

“My duty? Why is Robb’s duty to fight wars and mine is to marry old men?”

“Such is the fate of women,” Mother’s tone had not changed, but she smiled sadly now, “when I was a girl I was my father’s heir, until Edmure was born. I did not want to marry Brandon Stark, he slept with other women and was so forward I had to invite my uncle on our walks. When I had finally grown fond of him he died, and I was told to marry cold, quiet Eddard Stark. I did not want to, but I did my duty, and I came to love him. It was a good marriage my father made me and a good marriage I have made you.”

“I do not want to marry a Bolton!”

“You do not want to marry anyone,” her mother corrected, “but you will.”

“I will not.”

Her mother crossed the floor in five quick steps, her grey skirts dancing with each stride. Grabbing Arya by the shoulders, she shook her firmly, “yes, you will! Do you know what happened the last time a Stark girl was too good for her betrothal? Your aunt hated King Robert and was stolen by Rhaegar Targaryen and thousands died! Your uncle and your grandfather, Tullys vassels and Arryns heirs and so many men dead because the girl did not want to marry a Lord Paramount. You _will_ marry Roose.”

And then Jeyne was there, her babe gone from her arms, still weak as she shoved herself between mother and daughter, ” Lyanna was kidnapped, and to compare your abused good-sister to a whore does you ill, not her, Lady Catelyn.”

“Lyanna was surrounded by her father’s men. If she had cried out they would have been on Rhaegar in an instant. She did not want Robert and when she was offered a prince she chose herself over the kingdom. Arya will not do the same. This marriage will bind the Boltons to us.”

“Have you ever met Roose Bolton?” Jeyne demanded.

“I have met Tywin Lannister. When his daughter wed Robert Baratheon it bound the Lannisters and the Baratheons, just as this marriage will bind the Boltons to the Starks. Without it, their alliance will only keep growing.”

Jeyne had gripped the post of the bed, her knuckles turning white, “get out of my rooms.”

Mother smiled bitterly, “am I not even to get a say in the naming of my grandchild?”

“Perhaps when it comes time I will have found more of a tolerance for your presence.”

“You are not going to give this child a ‘milk name’ like you did the bastard. This is Robb’s child, a trueborn Stark.”

“A Stark of the North, yes. May the gods of the North bless my babe for the name. Now get out.”

It had been over then. Jeyne padded across the room to clean her face in the basin of water Beth had brought, then dressed in a dress of grey and white with a direwolf across it’s chest and gone to speak to Lord Bolton. That had done nothing either, except see her on outings with a man three years older than her father. He gifted her a little dagger that looked like a letter opener and promised to find her a horse worthy of her, but hawking and fox hunting was not Arya’s idea of excitement.

Neither were Jeyne’s sobs through the stone walls.

Arya listened to them in silence as she tried to memorize the lines and shapes the wood on her ceiling made. She did not dare light a candle. That would tell the men in the courtyard that she was awake. So she lay there, covered in the soft furs of her bed, studying the wood on her ceiling and the sliver of a moon outside. Waiting like a wolf would wait for her prey.

Tomorrow, she was to wed Roose Bolton. No one would trouble her in the early day, for many brides were nervous and the ceremony was to be held in the night. Mother would think she was sulking. Some three days ago, they had removed most of her childhood possessions from her closet, leaving only a single chest full of fine new silks and furs benefiting the Lady of the Dreadfort. Her mother had chosen to keep the wedding dress in her own room, likely worried that Arya would harm it. She was smart.

For some time she had refused to accept the betrothal, but as her mother pressed she unwillingly accepted. She went on rides with the strangely attentive Lord Bolton and learned the power she would hold as his lady. If she said that his bastard made her nervous, he was sent away. If she wanted to ride the finest stallion he had brought with him, he found her a saddle. If she asked to go hunting, he arranged to use her father’s hawks. It could be sweet, that power, but that was not who Arya wanted to be. Yet her mother was watching, and Arya must be that person. So she smiled instead of screaming, she laughed instead of running, she remembered that her sister had married the Kingslayer and pretended she was pretty, sweet Sansa instead of ugly, wild Arya.

It was the howl that broke her from her thoughts. When she sat up to look out of the window it was nearly too dark to make out the shapes in the courtyard. The fires had gone out, the men slept and night had truly settled over Winterfell. She waited, listening eagerly, but no sounds came from the camp other than those of horses, no light flickered over the frost no matter how long she waited, no shapes moved in the dark.

It was the hour of the wolf.

Somehow, that made Arya feel better. Silently, she stole from her bed. The nightgown she wore was a dark grey, Stark colors, but the heavy woolen socks were white. No one could suspect anything from socks, it was cold even in Winterfell. Her heart pounded in her chest as she gripped the edges of her mattress and slowly, _silently_ lifted. She braced it on her shoulders and slid her arms underneath until they came in contact with what she had hidden there. Dark wool and leather riding pants that had belonged to Sansa a lifetime ago; one of her own plain, pale shirts, gently worn; and a leather vest, a boy’s armor, that had once been Bran’s. She stayed low to the floor and dressed quietly and quickly. Her gown she threw across the bed, uncaring.

Once that was done, she crept to the closet and opened it slowly, wincing at the long _creak_ of the door. Using great care, Arya unlatched the chest inside and let the lid carefully on the floor, cushioning it from the stone. Inside were many fine gowns, but Arya dropped them on the floor without hesitation. Near the bottom she found what she wanted, what she had nearly been caught for. The longbow was wooden, with carved limbs and a green grip, the string so strong that Bran had struggled to nock it. This had been his gift on his last name day, and it prompted him to bother Jon and Robb until they taught him to use a bow. Arya tested the string carefully, then found Bran’s bracer under the pink-red gown that had cushioned the bow. Toward the front of the chest she found his quiver, with two dozen arrows inside. She hoped she would not have to use them.

After securing these to her person, she returned to the bed. The furs she flung onto the floor, and she saved her nightgown, but the thin sheets she collected, bound tightly together. This was Bran’s trick too, climbing, and from him she knew that this part of the castle had no handholds. When they were tied into a long rope, she secured the end to her bed post, then piled them carefully by the window. She would need to lower them carefully to prevent from being noticed, but she was not ready for that yet.

Among the papers and trinkets on her desk she found the coin buried between a pair of copper pennies. It was dark, but her fingers knew the square coin when she found it. She nestled it inside her shirt, insuring she could not lose it. Arya had meant to rid herself of it when she returned to Winterfell, but had decided to keep it as a reminder. Now she was glad that she had. This little coin, those few words in High Valyrian, those were her freedom. She just had to reach out and take it. Once it was safe, she picked up the little dagger that Roose had given her. After many weeks, her hair had grown long again. Her mother had been cooing about putting it up for the wedding. In chunks and feathers it came away, until it was too short for any sort of high lady. When she was done there was a pile of it on the desk and still more clinging to her clothes.

Arya swallowed hard at the sight of it, and went back to the window. For many long minutes, she fed the sheets over the side of the window, praying, until there was no more in her hands. For a moment Arya stayed where she was, crouched below the window with shaking hands and a pounding heart. She wore Bran’s vest, carried his bow, was of his blood. Bran had climbed these walls a hundred times and she only rarely. Bran had fallen and Arya was afraid.

“If I fall,” she whispered, hoping that the gods were listening, hoping that saying it aloud would make it true, “I will cut my throat with an arrow.”

Roose Bolton would not have a Stark bride.

Then she was up, clinging to the side of the window as she propelled herself out of it. The little safety ledge gave her a moment to grip the sheets, but she dared not stay too long lest someone see her. In the darkness of the castle she may be safe, her form hidden by the dark stone. In the window, lit by moonlight, she would not be. Bran had been right, there was no grip here. She clung to the makeshift rope and tried to ignore the scratching of her boots against the walls. By the time she reached the end of it, she was only a few feet above a little outcropping. Arya let go, and fell. After she recovered herself, she searched for handholds and found them. Despite her fear, she made it to the ground safely. The moment her feet touched the ground she strode toward the stables. If she looked confident enough, any onlookers would think her a particularly short guard.

Relief flooded her when she entered them unmolested and found them empty. The soft whicker of a horse greeted her, but Arya made for the tack room. There, she chose a worn saddle, a thick blanket of dark grey, and a plain, simple bridle with no sign of breaking. These she piled on the ground beside her quiver as she fished under the feed bucket for the long, thin sword she knew was there. Arya strapped Needle to her waist and collected her things. That done, she hurried to the stalls at the back of the building, to where the black stallion waited. He was to be Lady Barbrey’s gift to her, and a fine gift he was.

Wide, intelligent eyes watched her as she set the blanket and saddle on his back and grew the girth across his middle. Then she bridled him, admiring his training as he lowered his head and chewed on the bit as he watched her. After she had done that, she lifted each hoof to examine them and to wrap them in the strips of her nightgown. The fabric would muffle his hooves on stone. While he waited, she fished the ragged black-brown cloak from the bottom of her quiver and clasped it around herself. Last of all she tightened the girth, and swung up into his saddle.

Perhaps the guardsmen were asleep, but Arya was unwilling to take that chance. She had planned to attempt the walk out of the gate, knowing the stallion was faster than all the horses that might chase him, but when she came back to the hall a voice interrupted her, “what are you doing, boy?”

When she turned she found herself staring at the Hound, and he blinked slowly as he took in the sight. “...girl.”

“I am going to my sister Sansa,” the lie came easily. She had practiced it in her room some nights after she knew what she would do. The little coin hidden in her clothes pricked her skin, accusing, but her face never changed.

“Your sister can’t fucking help you,” he scoffed, “she will send you right back here. The little bird can barely help herself.”

“Would you stay?” Arya could make the gate from here, she thought, even if it was closing, “would you marry a Bolton and have a half-dozen children for him? I will not be some delicate flower in the Dreadfort.”

“How do you plan to get out of the gate, much less the North?”

“This stallion can outrun all the other horses in this stable,” Arya retorted. She knew it, she had ridden him before to see.

“And you plan to pray you get to the Rock before your family finds you? What do you think will happen then?”

“I must try.”

“Have you ever been to the Rock?”

“I will find my way.”

“You will get lost and fucking die, what you’ll do.” He swore something that might have been at her, then stumbled to his feet and reached for the reins of the horse who had slept beside him in the stall. Her father had said it was cruel to not remove the bit from a horse, but there was no point in angering Clegane. The more time she had before he started screaming the better. To her surprise, he tightened his girth and swung into his own saddle, scowling. “I will take you to the Rock, stupid she-wolf, but when we get there you must speak to your sister on my behalf.”

“You want to be a Lannister dog again, instead of a Stark dog?”

Clegane spat on the ground, “the news from the south is that your sister has made the Rock honest again. Shunned my brother and seen justice done in the Westerlands. I have a tale to tell her. Afterward… I would be her sworn shield if she asked, but I will settle for Master of Clegane's Keep.”

Arya felt like she had fallen into some strange dream, “you will help me… to talk to my sister?”

“Why not? I was pardoned, even Tywin himself cannot go back on that. Was his hand that signed the papers. I help you, you help me. A fair deal for a Stark.”

She wanted him dead. Yet she had learned something during her time entertaining the Bolton lord. Shaking her head, she agreed, “if you can get me there, I will speak for you.”

He rode past without a word. Still half-stunned, Arya followed. She kept her stallion clear of the rounsey he rode, but Clegane gave no indication he noticed. When they passed under the gates one of the guards in Bolton arms looked up, half asleep, “where’r you going?”

“Cerwyn Hall,” Clegane replied flatly.

“Fer what?”

“Do I look like a lordling to you?” Arya had tried to keep her face in shadow, but Clegane leaned forward toward the torchlight so the man could see his ruined face. “Lady Stark told me to take a message to the castle and it must be there as soon as possible.”

“You’re a mighty big raven.”

“You seen the birds flying for these wedding preparations? Or these snowstorms? Remember the war? We have no Cerwyn ravens and no shipment from the Citadel,” he snarled, “now do you need the lady herself to come down and ask you to move or can we go?”

“Go on,” said the Stark man from the other side of the gate, “nevermind him.”

Clegane led them forward, ignoring the grumbling Bolton. Arya’s heart was in her chest, but she followed. They never even looked at the little squire behind the knight. Only once they were into the woods did Clegane look back, “if we have luck, they will think you rode for the Wall.” He turned his horse on the road. For a moment, Arya entertained the idea of setting her heels to ther stallion and outrunning him. She could easily. His horse was small and ill-bred and weary, but if she did that now he would turn and go back to WInterfell and tell them she was going south.

It was a race to the sea now,. Arya had meant to sail from Saltpans, as White Harbor was too dangerous, but perhaps somewhere in the Vale would do as well. So she followed obediently behind the Hound, feeling the hilt of her little sword and remembering the last time she had been forced to travel with his man. She would have to run eventually, but bait would be useful for now. Last time she had been a hostage, this time she had the power.

After all, what could she tell her sweet sister Sansa?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few chapters to go :)
> 
> Thanks for the comments and your patience! I told you it was half-written :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Tywin (feat. Margaery)


	73. The Old Lion X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before gods and men.

5/21/302

Tywin was starting to feel like a damsel in a tower.

He had decided to break his fast in the Great Hall of the Red Keep before working on a few minor projects. The official ceremony would be held at noon, some six hours away, and he expected that the nobles of the castle would be asleep in their chambers as they normally were. Instead he was accosted on his way out by Leonette Tyrell, who attempted to insist that he would bring the wrath of the Seven upon himself should he happen see the queen on his wedding day. While he was still trying to formulate a reply in the face of the girl’s frighten bravado, Lady Sansa had pointed out that the realm and the smallfolk would be discomforted by such an omen, even if Tywin did not believe in such himself.

The Lannisters of Casterly Rock did not believe such trivialities, surely the gods had better things to concern themselves with, but neither did the Lady Sansa. She worshiped the old gods of the North. Even so, she had a point. He sent Martyn away with a message, and shortly after he arrived at the Tower of the Hand the Small Counsel arrived as well. Mace Tyrell was dressed in a doublet of the boldest green that Tywin had ever seen. The man was blustering about his precious daughter to an amiable Harys Swyft in a handsome golden tunic. Paxter Redwyne was similarly dressed, as was Ser Balon his his armor and Pycelle in a satin maester’s robe. Tywin felt underdressed next to even Kevan.

Martyn ushered them all in. Tywin had meant to wait for all of the members to gather, but as Ser Balon arrived his squire came to the head of the table, “Lord Tywin, when I went to find Lord Penrose his guard told me that Lord Robin and Ser Ronnel had been invited to break their fast with Lady Cersei.”

Tywin had spent a very long time choosing the proper lord to court. Lorra Penrose was not betrothed to Tommen yet, but Tommen’s fostering at Parchments and raising her to one of Lady Sansa’s companions had the implications of it. Lord Robin had wed an Estermont girl who was aunt to Steffon’s wife; his firstborn son Ser Gallen had wed a Tarth girl with the blood of the Targaryens; and Ser Gallen’s eldest son and Lord Robin’s living heir Ser Ronnel had wed a woman who was daughter to the Lord of Lannisport. He doubted that Cersei could undo his careful planning in one conversation, but something told him that she had blundered her way into it nonetheless.

“Did you inform him that I had summed the Small Council?”

“Yes, my lord, he went to carry the message to Lord Robin himself.”

“Very well,” he turned to Lord Mace, “the galleys you commissioned in the Arbor, how do they fare?”

If Lord Penrose meant to miss a session of the Small Council that was his loss and not theirs.

Tywin had expected to have at least two hours for the meeting. He expected his patience would wear thin before that, as Lord Mace’s blubbering and rambling was broken only by Lord Paxter’s moderation on account of the ships. Once that was done - the galleys were half built - Kevan was quizzed by Oberyn Martell on the validity of the law which had seen the closing of a whorehouse in Flea Bottom. Tywin doubted that the Dornishman truly cared about either the disease-ridden whorehouse or the tax which had seen them closed, but he seemed determined to be difficult. After Kevan had worked himself out of the argument, Tywin turned to Lord Harys.

The knock sounded before the Master of Coin could begin, “Lady Genna, Lord Tywin.”

His sister was dressed in gold, her hair bound in a braid with a red ribbon. When the door opened she considered them blankly, “the wedding is in an hour.”

“The wedding is at noon,” Genna frowned at him.

“You’re meant to be at lunch to receive gifts within an hour,” she explained, “then you must go to the sept to begin your prayers once it opens. At noon you are expected to begin the ceremony with the High Septon while the queen is escorted to the sept.”

“Who arranged a lunch?” Oberyn Martell was smirking, while Lord Mace had begun blubbering again.

“The queen!” Tywin could swear that Margaery had said that and he had refused. He also remembered forbidding flowers in the war room and already he had been complimented twice by Lord Mace and once by Lord Paxter on the vaseful of gold and red roses in the center of the table. “Why did you think Jaime has been dragging every make of sword he could find out of the armory?”

“After the meeting is over I will attend your lunch,” he allowed.

“Lord Tywin, there is no need to stay here with us,” Martell interjected, “it is your wedding day, you should be happy.”

Tywin waited for the barb. When none came he wondered if Martell had poisoned the lunch. Then Ser Oberyn’s eyes flickered to Mace, who was drying his tears with a scrap of fabric and expanding on some story with Lord Paxter. He was tempted to keep them just to grate on Martell’s nerves, but Lord Harys smiled eagerly, “I have not yet finished untangling the mess Littlefinger left, but your son Tyrion did very well. Over half of it was done when I arrived and I’ve finished most of what was left. If I could have several days I am certain I could explain it to everyone.”

“Very well. You have three days,” Tywin allowed. Ser Harys collected the book be had brought with him and hurried past Genna, Oberyn Martell just behind. Kevan had the decency to hover until he managed to herd Lord Mace out, and Lord Paxter followed his lord with a brief congratulations rather than a speech.

Once they had gone, Genna came closer. “Are you wearing that?”

“I broke my fast in this,” he returned.

“Lady Sansa mentioned that,” Genna noted, “she’s having blueberry tarts served at the lunch. You should hurry before Kevan eats them all.”

Tywin had no intention of rushing through getting dressed in an effort to save a pastry for himself. There would be trays of them; Kevan would not gorge himself on the things. Instead he made his way down to the hot pools of the bathing house that was reserved for the Hand of the King. Or Queen, as it were. Martyn was already waiting in the dressing room outside, polishing a black leather boot to perfection when Tywin passed him. The baths were so hot that steam hung heavy in the air and were an ill environment for leather.

It was an unusual match, the Lord of Casterly Rock with a great knight for a heir and the twice-wed only daughter of Highgarden. His heir prevented her children from inheriting the Rock, while her status as widow to the king should have seen her wed to one of her father’s bannermen to assure Lord Tyrell’s control of the Crownlands. Instead the queen was wagering the entirety of the kingdom on their marriage and her daughter. If Jocelyn proved to have her father’s madness escalated by her mother’s Hightower blood; if Edric Dayne proved less willing to bend to his wife as he grew into adulthood; if they did not have a son it could all fall apart. Yet this was their best hope for a united Seven Kingdoms.

Tywin had been married before, he was not new to this game of politics and houses. His father had wanted him to marry some Frey girl - and saddled Genna with Emmon when he refused outright - but once Tywin was free of that he had wed his cousin Joanna. She brought no armies or lands, but if Genna could marry a second son of a new House then Tywin could marry his lovely cousin. They had grown up together in the Rock and it was there that Tywin had learned that Joanna was a remarkable woman.

His wife was as fierce as any man, could lay battle plans and outmaneuver political opponents, but she was clever too. She would win a battle with smiles and words before Tywin could even begin. It was her network that Tywin relied on once Varys came to Kings Landing and her work that saw the Rock more productive than it had been since his mother had been alive. After Jaime had been taken for the Kingsguard and Rhaegar had kidnapped the Stark girl Tywin had wondered what could have been if he had married Jaime to Elia Martell.

No Elia meant that Aerys would have to look elsewhere for his bride and Tywin would have been waiting in the wings with Cersei. The Martell girl would have secured Jaime to the Rock and none of the other girls were suitable for Rhaegar. Aerys had known that. That was why he had chosen Elia and said it was for her Targaryen blood. Lyanna Stark, Catelyn Tully, and the Tyrell girls were betrothed and Lysa Tully was a poor comparison to Cersei. Neither the Tarths nor the Hightowers had daughters of a suitable age. For a time Aerys had courted Ashara Dayne for his son, but had decided that the Martells were a better match than their vassal house. Tywin had seen Ashara. He had seen Elia. Neither held a candle to Cersei.

It was a fool’s wish that Aerys would see Joanna in Cersei and desire the girl for Rhaegar’s bride, Tywin had come to realize that of late. Aerys had not desired Joanna for only her beauty, but also for her mind. She had no Targaryen blood, yet she had their fire. Many female Targaryens had been dragonriders, and his Joanna had the temperament for it. He did not know who spread the rumors that Joanna had been Aerys’ mistress - he half suspected the king himself - but he knew them to be untrue. Even after the trauma she suffered on their wedding night, marks which would never go away, Joanna had been brave in the face of Rhaella’s dismissal. When he was forced to send his new wife back to the Rock she had uttered not one word of complaint, indeed, she had made it her domain and her rare visits back to Kings Landing proved to him her fondness of their childhood home.

The day that Aerys gave him his children’s weight in gold had been the same day he first heard the rumors that his twins belonged to the king. Joanna had sent the messenger back to Kings Landing, followed shortly thereafter by a singer. Tywin trusted his wife. He did not trust Aerys. He had known what would be said the moment he saw Tyrion as well, had considered suffocating the boy in his bed, and Aerys had only made that worse with his taunting. Tywin had trusted Joanna even as she bled out her life, even as she leveraged Tyrion’s Lannister blood to save him, even as she gave up her hold on life, trusting him. Joanna had been a lioness.

He missed Joanna. Margaery Tyrell was not Joanna.

When Tywin returned to the dressing room, he found that Martyn had brought his shaving kit. The boy had been an excellent page and showed promise as a squire as well. He was no Jaime, but few were, and Tywin expected that Martyn would be knighted some year or two before average. While Martyn hurried to finish the sword belt, Tywin began to trim the edges of his beard.

Perhaps his trust in Joanna had gone too far. He saw her in Cersei, and so he trusted his daughter to rule Robert and thus the kingdom. Instead she had produced one son too mad to be left on the throne and a second too timid to command a cat. Her only success had been her daughter, and Tyrion had sent the girl to Dorne before he could determine if she would make a good informant. He saw her in Jaime, and so when his son had been eager to join the Kingsguard it had caught him unawares. Joanna would not have done such a thing in his place. Joanna was smarter than that. Nor would Joanna have allowed such rumors to linger between her and Steffon. She would have sent him away or gone away herself.

Which brought him to Sansa Stark. The girl was not a lioness, not like Joanna, but neither was she Cersei. For all of Lord Eddard’s foolish ideas of honor, he was an honest man. From Oberyn Martell to his own household guard men had loved him. Honorable Ned Stark, they called him, valiant Ned Stark. No one whispered that Sansa Stark wrongly loved her brothers. No one had one poor word to say about the girl or any of her family until they arrived in Kings Landing and she became a traitor’s daughter. Her father’s name, her father’s honor, that was what he wanted men to remember when they looked at Jerion. Few could charge the Lady Sansa with wrongdoing and fewer would be believed.

That would be his legacy, the child of Joanna’s golden son and the honorable Ned Stark’s daughter.

After he had bathed and shaved and dressed Tywin went to the private luncheon room in the Red Keep. Half the men in the Red Keep appeared to be there, but when he appeared they quieted. No sooner had he sat down than Kevan handed him a tray full of blueberry tarts. On his other side, Jaime produced a dagger and handed it to him. This was why he hated these events. He took the tray first, helping himself to the pastries and then put the tray down. While a maid hurried to bring warm food, he took the dagger to examine.

“What is this?” the dagger was long and slender. While it might be useful for piercing through armor in close fighting, if one’s opponent had a sword or arms it would be near useless. The hilt was a fine, soft leather and the dagger itself was carved beautifully with the Tyrell sigil and snaking vines.

“A dagger,” Jaime pointed out dryly, “a gift for Margaery.”

“What do you get for the man who has everything?” Tyrion asked. “A gift for his wife.”

“What did you get?” Jaime demanded, and his brother produced a thick leather book.

“A History of the Westerlands,” he explained, “by one of the more enterprising maesters. I do hope you like it, there are only two in the world.”

“They will copy it eventually,” Jaime argued.

“It is a lovely gift,” Kevan said mildly. “This is mine. Arbor Gold from 218 AC.”

“Did you sell your sons?” Jaime laughed, eyeing the bottle, “King Robert tried to buy a crate of those and they refused him.”

“I doubt they had a crate,” Tywin bit into a sausage and Kevan placed the gift next to him. That seemed to be the cue for the flood of well-wishers. While they were strictly limited to Lannisters and Tyrells, neither House had any shortage of distant cousins and all sought favor with the Lord Lannister. Eventually Jaime and Tyrion were forced to give away their plates to provide more room. One of the maids came to fetch Kevan’s as well, but his brother was still eating a blueberry tart and shooed her away.

An hour before noon Tywin managed to escape the leeches who had disguised themselves as well-wishers. His mare waited beside Jaime’s and several dozen Lannister soldiers in the courtyard. They would not have a repeat of the riots today. Surprisingly the smallfolk seemed to have no thought of that. The food that had flooded into the city had helped, yes, but as his mare trotted through the street he could see children running about clutching thornless red roses on bright green stems. The reason for such hit him in an instant, she had given them flowers to throw rather than shit. Rose Queen she may be, but she was more clever than the Stag King had been.

Tywin threw a golden dragon to a child who strayed too close to the horses and rode on.

It was customary for the groom to arrive at the sept before the bride to say prayers before the Seven. Each of the faces of the god must be prayed to, but the Father and Mother held more force in a wedding than the Stranger or Warrior. The sept had many rooms for this, from a massive communal room for the smallfolk to the small, private rooms for the low nobles. Tywin had been given the king’s own room, not quite half the size of the one the smallfolk used, but with statues of the same size and quiet in the air.

Defying the usual traditions, he went to the Stranger first, lighting the candle that waited at the base of the statue, “I beseech thee, grant that in death my lady wife Joanna may be refreshed through her faith and delivered from all guilt. Grant me what mercy can be given for leaving her in death.”

When the candle was burning brightly Tywin crossed to the Crone’s statue which awaited on the other side of the room, “Lady Crone, give me wisdom in all dealings, guide me through the wars and fray. Lift your lantern before me and take the queen by hand I pray. Show me the path I must walk, and do not let me stumble in the dark places that lie ahead.”

Again he waited until the flame had taken hold. It was ill luck for any candle to go out before one had been fully married. Once he was done, a young septon would guard the room to insure that they were not tampered with. This time he chose the Smith, a more common decision and one he did not make lightly. As he knelt, Tywin withdrew a tiny hammer from his tunic, hung from his neck with a cord. The Smith was the face he chose so long ago, a child in Lord Tytos’ Rock and with his aid Tywin had made House Lannister great again. It was the Smith he had sacrificed to that morning, “Smith, hear your servant. The kingdom is in ruins and rests upon the fate of a girl-child who must be named queen. Grant me your strength to build a new world, a new dynasty, to hold the Seven Kingdoms together. Grant me the steadiness of your hands and the energy to rebuild what has been lost.”

This candle burned brighter than the rest, a sign of the agreement of the god, he thought. It was not the candle he waited for this time, but for his own readiness. When at last he rose, he felt better about the Princess-Queen than he had before. The statue of the Warrior was across the room and it was there he stopped next. “Warrior, defender and soldier, grant me a favorable battle. Protect the queen and princess, watch over the Kingdoms, grant me the strength to do your work in this.” He sounded like he was preparing for a battle. Perhaps he was.

Tywin had prayed to the Maid twice in his life. Once before his wedding to Joanna, as was custom, and one after Tyrion’s birth. Both times, the prayer had concerned his beloved wife, and Margaery was not Joanna, it felt odd to pray for her, but it would be an insult to pray to the other faces of the Seven and not to the Maid. He knelt and lit the candle, and searched for the words. After a moment, he remembered a prayer that his mother had taught Genna, “Maiden, full of grace, blessed are thee among women. Guard the Princess Jocelyn in her innocence, lend her courage and wisdom for what lies in her path. Queen Margaery… is not a maiden. She has wed Renly Baratheon and Joffrey Baratheon, but she is a good queen. She has done well for the kingdoms. What courage you can offer, what prayer you can hear, give to her.”

Last of all he went to the Father and Mother. For a man, it would be customary to pray to the Father first, and while he had done everything else backward he still honored this tradition. “Father Above, great is your name, creator of the earth. Grant us the justice in our world that is in yours. Guide Queen Margaery in her duties, let her know the truth. Give me the strength to seek justice, and the wisdom to know it.”

The Mother’s face was still as he lit her candle, but as he knelt for the last time the words came unbidden. She had been his mother’s chosen face, and his beloved Joanna’s too. “Mother Above, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. Never was it that any who fled to your protection or sought your intercession was left unaided. Protect the princess, protect the queen. Grant Margaery many children, the gift of life blessed upon her. Turn your eyes of mercy upon us.”

When at last he stood, the room was filled with the light of the candles. He bowed once in the center of the room, low, to the place between the statues of the Father and Mother, and then strode to the door. Outside two septon’s waited, one to watch the room, one to guide him to the main hall. Before the queen’s entrance there would be prayers and incense and all eyes in the sept upon him. It took nearly hour to be ready, hour before the High Septon turned to the great doors at the end of the hall and waited for them to open, but all that was forgotten once they did.

Queen Margaery had wed Joffrey in a sleek, backless, low cut, silver gown. She had been beautiful, yes, but one could sense that she was seeking the king’s eye. Today her dress was ivory. It still had all of its fabric and a rose heavy train, but instead of stags it held golden lions. When she caught his eye she smiled in the way that Cersei hated so, and he wondered if she was truly pleased to be here or if this was merely another show for the people.

On silent feet she came up the steps and tooks his hands in hers. “My lords, my ladies,” the septon proclaimed, “we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” Thus it began. Throughout the ceremony, the prayers and vows and singing, tall candles burning, and a hundred dancing lights, the little queen looked up into his eyes and smiled at him.

At long last, the septon said, "you may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

She wore her father’s cloak, the green-and-gold which belonged to the Tyrells. There had been some debate on if she should wear a Tyrell cloak or a Baratheon cloak, all of which Tywin found ridiculous. Joanna had not worn a cloak on their wedding day, he had forbidden it, for she was not changing houses. His wife had laughed and agreed and indulged him. Lord Mace came up the steps, opened the clasp which held the cloak in place, and removed it with a flourish. The man will still crying, Tywin noticed. Ignoring that, he released the queen’s hands and removed his own cloak. Lady Sansa had brought it from the Rock and it would return with her when she left, to be given to Jerion’s lady wife. Cersei had worn it on her wedding day, as had Joanna, and his mother, and Rohanne Webber.

Tywin set it over her shoulders and clasped it there. The red of House Lannister accented her dress, he thought, which was likely why she chose it. This time it was he who reached for her hand."Let it be known that Lord Tywin of House Lannister and Queen Margaery Baratheon of House Tyrell are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

The ribbon was gold, a compromise for her house, his, and the princess’. The septon wrapped it tightly around their clasped hands, “in the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

Would he spend the afterlife with Joanna, as she was his first wife? Would he be allowed to choose? He imagined that Margaery would choose Renly if she could, as the dashing young knight would make for a better companion for a young maid than he. If she chose him, and he chose Joanna, what would happen then?

As the ribbon unraveled, the High Septon commanded, "look upon each other and say the words.”

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” her voice was louder than his, but the smile never strayed, “am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” The moment she, they, had finished speaking, he leaned forward, “with this kiss, I pledge my love."

When they turned he could still feel her smile pressed against his lips. The guests clapped and cheered, and Margaery waved happily at them. As they descended the platform on which the altar stood and walked down the center aisle, little girls in Highgarden colors threw petals of gold and green and red. As they crossed the marble floor she kept her grip on his hand, and even as they came is the steps and left the inner sanctuary she did not take his arm as most ladies would.

The guards formed two lines out of the great doors to the sept as they exited, one Tyrell men and one Lannisters. Outside the sunlight was blinding, bells tolling and crowd roaring as their beloved queen came into view. When Margaery stopped, he did as well, and when she waved at the crowd he took the chance to observe the guards who escorted the smallfolk back. The air was full of flower petals. He supposed he deserved that for marrying a Tyrell. It took him a moment to hear the chanting, to understand the words.

“Queen Margaery!” They shouted. “Queen Margaery! Lannister! Lannister! Lannister!”

At the base of the steps waited his white mare and a glorious golden mare. Ser Garlan stood by to aid his sister, but Tywin simply gripped Margaery’s waist and lifted her onto the mare. Once he was certain that she would not slip, he stepped back to his own mare and let one of Margaery’s cousins arrange her skirts. The smallfolk cheered them, and as they passed many of the roses he had seen that morning were thrown into the streets. Even so, his men kept a wide parameter and carried weapons, and every few meters a Lannister banner was carried.

In the courtyard of the Red Keep, Tywin allowed himself to calm. The Gold Cloaks were thick here, if anyone wanted to harm them they would have done so on the streets. After aiding the queen from her mare, she wrapped her arm through his and they began the walk into the yard where the feast would be held. They had been sat at the table of honor on the dais, with his children to their left and her family to their right on the long tables. Someone had convinced Margaery to hold a sixty course feast and Tywin dutifully took at least a mouthful from each dish.

The queen loved to dance. He had known this, of course. He danced first with her, then traded partners first with Jaime, then with Tyrion and Kevan and Lancel, then danced with any maiden who’s husband or father Margaery managed to talk into dancing with her. Just when he was considering retreating to the table again, he found himself dancing with Lady Sansa, “is there to be a bedding ceremony, my lord?”

Tywin had heard what happened at Lady Myrielle’s bedding. The lion cub that was currently resting under the table had come very close to killing a man, and Tywin would rather not have a repeat of that. He also had a general aversion to anything related to a bedding ceremony in Kings Landing; he did not want to spend the night with Joanna’s scream echoing in his ears. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

She asked no question, only nodded. “I will inform Ser Garlan, he’s quite nervous. Would my lord mind if I did that now?”

For a moment he had to wonder if she was truly a Stark. She was far more perceptive than her father, at least. Perhaps it was the Tully blood? Nevertheless, he led her to her table and returned to his own, watching as she stole Margaery’s brother from his wife. Watching the process of information was enlightening. The queen interrupted her father’s dance with Lady Dorna to inform him, and then he returned to his table to discuss it with his mother and eldest son.

When the rose queen finally came to find him, he offered her his arm. “My lady, it’s time to leave.” She took his hand instead, but made no protest to the old tradition. He decided to count it a success.

Tywin took them to her rooms rather than his. She was keeping the rooms in the Red Keep, those belonging to the Queen Mother, while Tywin was moving into the one beside her. He would not give up his rooms in the Tower, but for pretense at least he must keep a chamber here. While he closed the door, the queen ventured across the room to the great windows, where the breeze was cool off the bay.  
  
Let her go. She was no blushing maiden, but he knew that Joffrey had not been kind to her. Tywin stood beside her vanity. He removed his sword belt first, gently placing it on the chair, then sat and removed his red doublet that Martyn had fussed over this morning. How long ago had that been? Underneath he wore a golden tunic, and as he lay that beside the sword and doublet he felt rather than saw his wife approach. Margaery had undone the laces to her dress, and as he turned she let the gown pool at her feet. Underneath she wore a sheer chemise in the red of the Lannisters. With her crown gone and her hair down, the girl blinked up at him as she fought the blush that threatened to steal up her neck and said nothing.

Her belly was scarred from childbirth, but still smooth; her breasts sloping, but heavy with milk; and near the apex of her thighs was a scattering of brown hair. Tywin removed his second boot and stood. She half-started. The queen did not have the same easy smile she had in the sept, but one from the days when her skin had been dark with bruises. Try as he might, he could not stop seeing Queen Rhaella’s smile, and he kissed her so he would not have to look. She faltered, hesitated, then kissed back.

One of her arms came to his shoulder, the other wrapping behind his neck, and the queen made a displeased noise when she found no hair to grab. Her mouth tasted of the sweet red wine she had drank and although she had likely bathed in rose oil and doused herself in rose perfume she still smelt of cloves. Faintly he could hear the sound of thunder in the bay behind them. He would close her windows before he left, but first there was the matter of consummating their marriage. She was still trembling when he drew back, so he kissed her again and stepped toward the bed.

He was no great lover, but he was not Joffrey or Aerys either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the next chapter soon, as I have it about 90% done. Writers block seems to be effecting my Lannister chapters, since my planning is currently on Lannisters.
> 
> In other news, we have a Twitter. So next time you're sitting around going 'why isn't the chapter here' you can take a look and will probably have an answer! https://twitter.com/jeanzedlavao3
> 
>  
> 
> Next Chapter: Winterfell


	74. Lady Stark XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winters are hard, but the Starks will endure.

Tor was fussy.

The babe always was in the evening, while Snow prefered to cry in the mornings. Some days Jeyne had wondered if she had insulted the gods by deciding to raise her babe in the ways of the North rather than those of the Seven. Then she remembered unborn Eddard and her resolve strengthened. The Seven had seen her scorned and shamed, the old gods had given her a husband and a child to take his name.

Even so, she was grateful for her handmaidens. Each night one of them stayed in her rooms to ensure that she was not woken throughout the night. Some nights she never woke once. Tonight was Lyra’s turn, and she came in without knocking. Bolting the door behind her, Lyra set her sword to the side of the door and dropped her gloves on the end of the bed as she watched Jeyne and the babes.

She was trying to convince Tor that the new blanket was acceptable to sleep with. That was Lady Catelyn’s fault. When she had presented Jeyne with the blanket she had assumed it was meant for the babies and placed it between them in the crib. It was light red, almost pink, but Jeyne had suspected that Lady Catelyn meant it as a slight on Jeyne’s Lannister blood and nothing more. Snow had become fond of it, but when Lady Catelyn noticed she had been upset for a week about the bastard having the blanket in “Tully colors” she had sewn for Tor.

When at last she gave up and let Tor push the blanket away, she looked up to Lyra, dreading the answer, “any news?”

Nine days ago they had found the sheets from Arya’s bed hanging from the tower and broken open her door. Jeyne could still hear Lady Catelyn’s wail when she discovered that her daughter had chosen to run away rather than face her marriage. The thought of it made Jeyne’s chest twist with guilt; she had promised to protect Arya and had not. A girl of three and ten, Arya could be dead in a gully somewhere because of her. Lyra had traced them North and sent a handful of men to the Wall to look for them. If Arya was there, she would be brought back to her marriage. Roose had accepted all of this with surprising calm and agreed with Lyra that it was possible the girl just wanted to see her bastard brother before the wedding. Jeyne had almost laughed when he stared at Lady Catelyn when he said it. Lord Roose knew as well as Jeyne that Arya had wanted Jon Snow to come to the wedding and that Lady Catelyn had refused.

“None. I expect the snowstorm slowed the men, but in the next few days I expect their raven,” Lyra gently pulled the blanket from Tor side of the crib to Snow’s, and the older babe eagerly grabbed it. “If she is not there, perhaps she fled to the Vale?”

“Or Riverrun.” Jeyne had sent a raven to the Vale, although she had been close to sending Catelyn herself. Instead she had sent Brienne to Riverrun, removing Lady Catelyn’s shield and friend was a small jab for what she had done.

“Tor does not like red,” Lyra decided. Jeyne knew she was cheating on the name, but Lady Catelyn had been right. A heir needs a name. So she had dubbed the child Tor, for the river, and would give a new one in time.

“Snow does,” she touched the blanket gently. “What will we do if we never find her, Lyra?”

“Arya is a daughter of the North,” her companion answered, “she will survive.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I never wanted to force her to marry,” Lyra’s voice held no judgement, but it only made Jeyne’s heart hurt more. “I hope she is safe somewhere where she is free.”

Jeyne had no answer to that. Where would Arya go? Living as a smallfolk for the rest of her life was no better than being married to a high lord. She retreated to her bed and snuggled into the furs. Of late she wore both a chemise and a kirtle to bed, as it was cold in the early mornings and she did not like walking across the middle of the room to reach her clothes in the cold. The walls were warm, but she was of the Westerlands and she did not like cold. Jeyne heard more than saw Lyra join her. Since Arya’s disappearance, the Northern girl tended to sleep on top of most of the furs, still in her armor.

Lyra would care for the babes, and Jeyne allowed herself to close her eyes and relax for the first time since she crawled out of bed that morning. Grey Wind’s snoring and the crackling of the fire filled the air, and she slowly drifted into a dreamless sleep.

It was not to last.

They were woken by a frantic knocking. It took Jeyne a moment to hear the sound, and when she did she scrambled from the furs and stumbled to the door. It was news of Arya, it must be, why else would they wake her at this hour? Lyra sat up on the bed, but Jeyne made it to the door first, the cold creeping up her bare feet. “What is it?” Her hands fumbled on the lock.

“Jeyne open the door, quickly!” Outside her door was Beth Cassel in a state Jeyne had never before seen. She wore a heavy woollen chemise and her auburn hair was in disarray. Her feet were bare in the cold night air, her eyes wild as she blurted, “get dressed, get the babe, you have to go.”

“Go? Go where?” it was the hour of ghosts and a snowstorm raged outside. Leaving the warmth of the castle was all but a death sentence. Taking the children with her would be worse. ”Why?”

“The Bolton men, they’ve betrayed us. They broke down Jarwick’s door and dragged him screaming into the yard,” Beth was rambling. Somewhere below was the tramp of boots. “He screamed until they stopped him. They chased me, but I managed to-”

Her words were cut off when a man threw open the door to the stairs. It took only a heartbeat for her to recognize the Umber giant on his chest but by then he was hurtling across the hall toward them. Beth screamed and fell to her knees, and Jeyne threw herself backward, away from his grip. She landed hard on the floor and was greeted with a spray of blood as the arm he meant to grab her with landed beside her. Lyra stood above her, sword in hand, and with her second blow she cut his neck half through. He fell.

Grey Wind rose from the hearth and in two strides he had taken the second man. Lyra took a step back to brace herself for the fight as the other men hesitated at the sight of the direwolf. “Get dressed, Jeyne. Quickly. You too, Beth.”

Then they were fighting. Sword clashing sword, men screaming and shouting and crying. Jeyne rolled over and crawled for her closet, propelling herself to her feet and then ran. She found the pair of fur-lined pants that Arya had sewn for her and stubborn riding boots. Offering a prayer to the gods, Jeyne secured the fur coat around her tightly, then lowered Tor into it. Snow she carried, clutching the babe close until Beth had wrestled on boots and could take her.

The fight in the hall had died, and when Jeyne peered out her door she watched as Lyra kicked an arm down the stairs, the last of the Umber men defeated, and lowered the bar across the door to the stairs. It would not hold long. “Where do we go?

“Beth, you were born here, you have to get us out of Winterfell. We have to go to Bear Island,” Lyra commanded.

“I know a way,” Beth said as she adjusted her grip on Snow. She started down the hall, but Jeyne paused when she realized that Eleyna stood in her own doorway, staring, still in her chemise.

“Eleyna, come on!”

“Someone needs to stay,” Eleyna said, glancing nervously to Jeyne’s door. Jeyne was terrified and sleep-befuddled. For a moment the words did not sink in.

“What? You heard Lyra, we have to get to Bear Island!”

“If they find your door unlocked and you gone they will be after you in an instant,” Eleyna argued, “they must be waiting for the castle to be secured to come for you. I must stay inside your rooms and lock the door.”

“Eleyna, _no,_ you are my sister. I swore to protect you-” She had sworn to protect many people. Robb was dead, her mother, maybe even her father and brother. If they managed this escape and her brother was caught, they would kill him. Her beautiful little sister shook her head at Jeyne’s demands, showing a willfulness she had never displayed.

“She is right,” Lyra said as she came to them, “every second they spend breaking down the door is a second they will not chase us.”

“I will not leave her!”

A violent _thud_ sounded on the door to the stairs. Lyra lifted her bloody sword sharply and Grey WInd growled deep in his throat. A man shouted down the stairs, and then the door was slammed into so hard that it rattled. Lyra grabbed Jeyne’s arm, “we must leave.”

“Not without her!”

“Think of the baby, sister,” Eleyna darted across the hall and gripped Jeyne’s door. Jeyne could feel Tor’s weight behind her. Did Robb’s heir come before her own sister? “Do not fear for me.”

“ _Eleyna-_ ” Jeyne had no words. She should thank her, for sacrificing herself to save Jeyne’s babe. She should scream, for Eleyna was sworn to obey her. Instead she allowed Lyra to draw her away, holding back her sobs only for the sake of the children. Behind them the door shut firmly.

Beth led them to the end of the hall, where a simple bookcase sat. Between Lyra’s strength and Beth’s gentle hands, they moved it without sending anything crashing to the floor. Beth took a torch from the wall and entered first, while Jeyne followed tentatively and Lyra replaced the bookcase. Inside the wall was a second set of stairs, one Jeyne had never been told of. The heat was sweltering here. Snow began to complain in Beth’s arms, but she never stopped moving. Together they ran, trusting Beth’s memory as she led them down a flight of stairs, through twisting tunnel after twisting tunnel, and up more stairs.

Outside the walls men were shouting, steel-on-steel could be heard, but the farther they ran the less they heard. Jeyne’s wool skirts stuck to her legs, Lyra was panting in her armor. Eventually Beth slowed. “There is a way to the north gate through here, but it will be guarded.”

“What else can we do?” Lyra answered. Grey Wind panted in the silence, likely overheating in his fur.

“If we exit here, we might be able to leave through a servant’s entrance?”

“Where is ‘here’?” Jeyne asked.

“I- I am not exactly sure,” Beth admitted. “I have only been in these tunnels once, with my father. I’ve been counting the stairs, though. And it’s quiet.”

“So we should exit into a random hall?” Lyra asked.

“We cannot stay here forever.” Beth looked at the door. “And it _is_ quiet.”

“I do not like this.”

“What choice do we have?” Jeyne asked.

“None.” Lyra answered at last. “None at all. I will go first.”

“There is a catch in the wall here,” Beth said, “it will open the door.”

She slid around them to reach the wall, feeling about for the catch that Beth had found. After some scraping about the sound of rock grating on rock was heard, and light could be seen through the cracks on the door. Lyra pushed against the door and with the loudest sound Jeyne thought she’d ever heard it opened. In the silence, Lyra leaned into the dimly lit corridor and paused. “Empty. We are above the brewery.”

“We must get to the stables,” Beth panted, looking down the long hall to their right.

“They will be guarded,” Lyra adjusted her grip on her sword, “better to steal horses and flee.”

“The gates will be guarded,” Beth argued, “we have to create a distraction. If we burn the stables, perhaps we can slip out the gate.”

“The doors will be guarded, how will we get to the-” down the hall a shout came. Then a clamor of armor. Frozen to the spot, undecided and afraid, something tickled the edge of Jeyne’s memories. Cold air brushing across her face, the fear pounding in her heart....

“The brewery is one floor down.” The stairs were just in front of them, not blocked by men as the hall would soon be.

“That’s deeper into the castle!” Beth protested.

“We cannot stay here. Do you want to risk the doors?”

Beth bit her lip hard, “come on, then. This way.”

The massive room was empty and dark, but they tumbled into it anyway. Jeyne led Lyra through the maze of pots and fires which dimly lit the room while Beth latched the door as best she could. At the back wall, exactly where Jeyne remembered, rested an old empty copper pot. She nearly cried at the sight of it, “push it to the side.”

Lyra did so without question. The door was still broken and weak, but Jeyne unlatched it and stepped into the dark with only a torch stolen from the hall. On the top step she remembered her fear of the place, of the creatures it brought to mind, but she did not stop. She feared the Boltons more than ghosts. Beth was behind her now, Lyra dragging the pot back into place and latching the door, but Jeyne knew the way better than either of them. Step by step she descended into the darkness, until her torch was tiny and she could not see Grey Wind ahead of them.

Creaking, the stairs held their weight, allowed their passage. Behind them, above them, men were shouting. A great _crash_ told them that the door to the brewery had been broken, but Jeyne continued on undeterred. In this darkness and cold one might think that there were worse fates than to be caught by men. Thrice she thought she saw something moving in the darkness, but Grey Wind gave no indication of it and Jeyne had no choice but to continue on. Under her feet each stair felt like it might break, screamed unbearably as she stepped across it, but still she went on.

Finally they came to the fifth floor, to the darkness that enveloped even the light of the torch, to the strange cave in with tool marks, to the cold that chilled even though the furs. Tor’s weight was heavy at Jeyne’s back. Grey Wind waited at the bottom of the stairs. Behind them, Jeyne thought she could hear stairs breaking under the weight of armored men. Beth was shivering, Lyra glancing about warily, but Jeyne led them to the shelf that had collapsed under the weight of the broken stones and knelt again.

Cold trickled across her face.

She grasped a crate of destroyed bottles and hauled it aside to reveal the back of the wooden shelf. The top right had been crushed in the cave in, and when she held out her torch she nearly screamed. A skull was broken in the hole that the stones had created, spider webs filling the empty bone of a man long dead. Through the broken bones came a breeze, the torch in Jeyne’s hand dancing with it.

“Here!” What was beyond this dead man? How many men had fought and died in this cavern? Why had the Starks of old chosen to break their own cellar rather than defend against the invasion? Jeyne did not want to know. That had been ten thousand years ago and whatever they had feared was dead. “Lyra, here, break open the back of the wood. We can crawl through.”

The Mormont woman did as requested, her boot smashing through the rotting wood with a violent _smash_. Jeyne winced at the noise, but Lyra kicked again, until the gap was wide enough for a person. Beth stared into the newly made hole. “Where does it lead?”

“What if it is a dead end?” Lyra agreed.

“I can feel the wind,” Jeyne answered firmly, “there must be a way out.”

“How will we-” the shouts from above were louder now. They did not know the locations of the staircases as Jeyne did, but they were still in pursuit. Lyra’s words died on her lips. She adjusted her grip on her sword and nodded. “Go, quickly.”

Grey Wind was the first through the gap. His paws broke the hole wider, for which Jeyne was grateful when she followed him, keeping one hand on Tor to insure he was not harmed. When Beth approached she took Snow from her to allow her to crawl through. Once they had arranged the child, Jeyne looked back through the gap. “Lyra, come on.”

“Go without me.”

“Lyra-”

“Go! Follow the wolf, he seems to know the way,” Lyra commanded. She shoved the case of broken bottles back into place and moved away from the hole. The shouts of men grew louder, “I will buy you time.”

“You are only one person! Come with us, please!”

Beth grabbed her arm, “Jeyne, we have to go!”

“I swore to protect you,” Lyra agreed, “and I can best protect you by guarding this door. You carry the heir to Winterfell, your fate is to escape. Mine… House Mormont has held faith with the Starks for thousands of years. We will not break faith today. Tell my mother when you see her that I died for the Starks.”

Grey Wind was already to the new set of stairs, whining. The first man came barreling down the stairs, blinded by the dark, and Lyra was on him in an instant. Jeyne closed her eyes against the tears and let Beth lead her away. When they came to the stairs they were covered in bodies long dead. One skeleton held a old, old iron mace as it lay face down against a cave in, others were littered, mostly whole, across the stairs themselves. It seemed as if the Starks had tried their cave in trick at least once before it had worked. She went first, Grey Wind just ahead. The light of her torch was a pitiful thing in this darkness, but it was all they had.

Lyra had been right. Jeyne wanted to pray for her, but did not know how. If she prayed for Lyra’s life that was praying for her torture, but praying for a quick death seemed just as bad. Where was Lady Catelyn? Why had the Boltons chosen tonight? Jeyne tried to ignore the skeletons, but they only increased as they ran after the direwolf. Lyra was gone, but he would protect them. He had to. Down they went, down and down and down.

The cellar was littered with bones, more bones than she had thought the North possessed in men. At first the rooms were cold, but after several floors they became warmer. Was this the center of the earth? The maesters said it was hot, she knew, and Jeyne did not know how far down they had gone. Broken bottles, bent swords, old maces, and so many bones. They did not slow to look at anything. At long last the stairs ended in a massive room that had not been dug by man. This was a natural cavern underneath Winterfell, full of water and steam.

Grey Wind led them across the cave, through the maze of bubbling lakes stretching into the darkness, and to the side of the cavern where some massive thing had put a hole in the great wall. It almost looked recent to Jeyne, but she was no expert in mining and all she carried was a torch for light. She could not even see the ceiling of the cavern. They did not stop to look. Once through the gap, there were no skeletons. One way had a massive corridor which almost looked like the entrance to a mine, but Grey Wind did not go that way and her torch did not flicker when she held it out. These rooms were as hot as the walls had been, and it took Jeyne a moment to realize when they came to the next staircase. A staircase which led up. Grey Wind had found the way out.

“Bless the wolf,” Beth said behind her, sounding as tired as Jeyne felt.

“Thank the gods,” she seconded, and started up the stairs. They were going slower now, as neither of them had the strength to run uphill. As they came to the top of the first staircase the architecture appeared. The roof was high, high above them and the corridor wider than the light could stretch. Jeyne paused, her heavy clothes hampering her ability to breathe, and found the breath to ask, “Beth, what is this?”

“Legend says that men took shelter in a cavern of hot springs during the Long Night,” Beth answered, eyes huge, “and atop that cavern was built Winterfell. This must be the cavern of that legend.”

“Robb told me that, once. He said that it was only a legend relating to the catacombs the Stark...kings...had...been…” The light of her torch seemed brighter as she turned. She could see farther. As they followed Grey Wind, the first statute came into sight. Jeyne held the light in front of it, studying the long face and heavy crown and iron sword. When she turned and held the light out, she could see many more statues, all with crowns like Robb’s and great iron swords. Most were male, but this first one had the face of a woman, “...buried in.”

“Perhaps we are both right,” Beth said, as much in awe as Jeyne was. She stepped close to see the old carvings on the tomb behind the statue, “Caebrýn the Conqueror, the Last Hero of Mankind, Queen of Winter.”

“What is that? The Old Tongue?” Jeyne asked.

“All children of the North are taught some of the Old Tongue, but in the days before the Long Night it was all that was spoken.” Beth answered. She stepped forward to the next statue, that of a hulking man who towered over the woman’s statue, “Bran the Builder of Storm’s End and the Hightower and Moat Cailin and Winterfell and the Great Wall. Son of House Stark, King of Winter.

“These statues, these catacombs, they were lost thousands of years ago. How did we come to be here?” Beth reached up to touch the face of the man, “how will we get out?”

“Perhaps the burning of Winterfell by the Ironborn opened old passages?” Jeyne held the torch closer to the woman’s face. “Some day Tor will know of this, will reopen these catacombs and know the history of his House.”

“We should stay here,” Beth said suddenly, and Jeyne looked at her in alarm.

“Here with the dead? We have no food, no water.”

“Not forever. Only until they stop looking for us inside of Winterfell.”

“Do you think they are still looking?”

“If they thought Lyra was intentionally leading them to a dead end...perhaps not within the castle. Not here, certainly. There are a hundred twists and turns that Grey Wind led us through, no man could follow all of that.” Beth stepped away to see the other three tombs that had been placed here, all male.

Jeyne followed to give her light and for the comfort of her company, “what do they say?”

“Brandon the Breaker of Peace. Brother to Rickard and Joramun, father to Bran the Brave. Son of House Stark, King of Winter. He is the Stark King who defeated the Night’s King,” Beth studied the man, shorter than his father, broader than his mother. The next statue looked similar, perhaps a son. Beth frowned at the carvings and read slowly, “Rickard of House Stark, Thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“What is it?” Jeyne asked, when Beth stilled.

“This is the Night’s King’s tomb. Lost for centuries upon centuries. He was a son of House Stark, brother to the men who killed him. I had never heard that part of the legend.”

“One of the men who killed him was King Beyond the Wall,” Jeyne reminded her.

“His name was Joramun,” Beth stepped to the last tomb, “Joramun of House Stark, Betrayer of his Brother, King Beyond the Wall. Brandon, Rickard, and Joramun. All Bran the Builder’s sons.”

“I thought only Kings and Lords were buried here?”

“That is tradition now,” Beth agreed, “who knows thousands of years ago, so soon after the Long Night.”

The Northern girl seemed in awe of their findings. Jeyne could not blame her. Some maesters would cut off their own hands for knowledge such as this, for the mere sight of a chamber so great that Jeyne could not see the top, built for their first queen and king. Even so this was not the time to rejoice in it. “We must get to the surface, to the stables.”

“Where will we go?”

“To Bear Island to rally the North, or to Riverrun or the Vale.”

“Rally the North?” Beth repeated, slowly. “The Boltons would never have done this if they did not think they had the support. Riverrun and the Vale are controlled by the Crown, and Lord Tywin would kill your children as soon as Lord Roose would. Sooner, even, as he holds Lady Sansa.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I am not knowledgeable in Southron politics. Perhaps you are right, the support of Lord Edmure or Lady Lysa would rally the North around the children.”

“You see? We cannot stay here, Beth. We must find horses.”

“As you say,” the climbed seemed easier after regaining their breath. Grey Wind waited at the top of this flight of stairs, and he led them more slowly now. The first floor was a size to match the tombs of the founders of House Stark. After that each floor was larger, each hall wider, each alcove had more and more tombs. Occasionally they would pause in the darkness to read one, trying to determine where they were. Some of them Beth knew, but rarely did they find one of those.

After many floors and many stairs, they came to a cave in. Or, at least, what had been a cave in. This must be what had blocked the old tombs for so long, but a massive hold had been dug through the center of it. When Jeyne held her light out, she saw massive claw marks that had removed stone as easily as earth. She blinked again and decided they were shovel marks from the Ironborn. No creature had claws like that. The blockage was strewn out for thirty meters behind them when they reached the source. Grey Wind sniffed at it, but did not linger. Higher and higher they climbed, until Jeyne could see light at the end of the corridor they walked down.

As they neared the light, Grey Wind stilled suddenly.

It took Jeyne a moment to realize why, but as her eyes adjusted to the light on the staircase she realized that a man sat on it. He was young and lean, with shaggy brown hair and a thick beard. His clothes had once been fine; the ragged cloak held patches of fur, the filthy, ill-kept boots were made of supple leather, and his doublet held some sort of sigil, although she did not know which. Grey Wind did not growl, although he lowered his head and stiffened. The wolf took a step forward, and the man started, staring up at Jeyne.

“Jeyne Stark.”

“Do I know you, Ser?”

“No. I- I knew Robb.”

“Who are you?”

“Theon. Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon Turncloak,” she accused, stepping in front of Beth and the babe she carried. Grey Wind did not flinch when the man scrambled to his feet and staggered toward them.

“I told Robb, I told him. I never killed his brothers.” Theon shook his head. “He did not believe me. I killed the miller’s boys. Miller’s boys, not Lord Eddard’s.”

“You should be in the dungeons.” Robb was wise not to believe him, and kind to not tell his mother of the Greyjoy’s lies. If Bran and Rickon were not dead they would have returned to Winterfell.

“The Bolton men released all of us,” Theon was staring at Snow in Beth’s arms, “that is Robb’s babe. You have the last Stark.”

“Get out of our way or Grey Wind will kill you,” Jeyne warned. If he screamed it would alert the entirety of the castle.

”I can help you,” he offered, hands held out pleadingly, “get you horses. Out the gates. I can take you to the Vale or to Riverrun, even to the Rock. Please, let me save Robb’s babe. Robb was like my brother.”

If Robb was his brother that made Theon a kinslayer. Jeyne opened her mouth to say as much, but Beth spoke before she did, “the Boltons expect you to fight for them. You say you can get us horses?”

“I swear it on my life, my mother’s life.” Theon stumbled over the words, “by the Drowned God and the Seven and the gods of the North. I owe Robb a debt, let me help you.”

“How far are we from the surface?” Jeyne had no choice. No choice at all. If Grey Wind attacked him, he would scream. If they let him go and refused his aid, he would tell the Boltons. Perhaps they could escape to the stables while he looked for horses?

“A stairwell, no more. Lord Rickard is entombed in the alcove at the top,” Theon answered, “hide here. I will go and get horses.”

As he staggered up the stairs, Beth pressed Snow into Jeyne’s arms, “go back to the tombs below and hide well. I will scream if this is a trap.”

“If they find you they will torture you until you give us away,” Jeyne hissed back.

From the folds of her nightgown Beth produced a dagger, “if they find me, I will scream and then I will cut my throat. I will not tell them anything.”

That had not been what Jeyne meant. Even so, Jeyne adjusted the sleeping Snow in her arms and slunk back down the stairs to listen and wait. Beth was right, they needed horses. They needed help. She rested her head against the back of the wall, crushed between a statue and a wall as she was, Grey Wind at her feet, and waited. Some time later the soft pad of shoes came on the steps, “Jeyne, hurry!”

Outside Theon Greyjoy was holding two nervous, nondescript bays in the shadow of the crypts. It was the hour of the nightingale, it would be dawn in several hours. When he saw them he pulled the horses nearer, “hurry. The guards will not be distracted for long.”

Jeyne flung herself atop the smaller bay, then took Snow from Beth. Her skirt was bunched uncomfortably, but that did not matter now. In the mouth of the crypts, the horses started at everything. Someone would see, someone would hear. Jeyne’s hands trembled as she gripped the reins. Theon swung into the other mare’s saddle and reached down for Beth, but the Cassel girl was staring at the gate.“How will we get out? The gates are closed.”

“I will speak to the guards,” Theon promised. “Lady Jeyne, pull up your hood.”

“No. Why would they open the gates for Theon Greyjoy? You are as much a prisoner as you were in the dungeons.” Beth took a step away, looking up at the watchtower. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “They must be opened. I must do it.”

“Beth-”

“I cannot guide you to Riverrun, Jeyne,” the girl insisted, “but I know how to open the gates.”

“Beth!” She hissed, but the girl was gone, across the courtyard in the night. Jeyne nudged her bay to the wall and waited with the stranger beside her. Was she to lose all of her friends this night, and only gain a traitor in return?

Theon looked at her nervously, “I cut the horses loose. The guards ran after them, but…”

Jeyne nodded her understanding. They would not be gone long. After several agonizing minutes, each shadow in the courtyard making them both jump, Theon’s hand on a sword he had not possessed when they met him, Jeyne’s hands wrapped in her cloak and reins, the sound of a chain was heard. It was sudden and violent, a development of war, but the gate shot upward suddenly.

Instantly a cry went up, but Jeyne had already kicked the mare. Theon was only a pace behind as they raced for the gates. Snow woke, but the babe’s head was buried in her stomach and no cry was heard. Wrapped in her cloak as he was, she hoped that no one would see him. If they did not see the children, only Theon and a fleeing companion, perhaps they would think they were both mere prisoners.

Kicking harder, Jeyne drove her mare to the gate. There were men in their path, one on horseback, two more running toward them. Jeyne drove her mare on, aware that the knight’s sword could cleave them in two, but as he lifted it he let out a scream of shock. Grey Wind threw himself over the horse, seized the man by the neck, and carried him to the ground. When they landed the man screamed no more.

On her other side, Greyjoy cut down a man with his sword and trampled him under his horse. She did not dare speak, but he was shouting, “ride! Ride!” Jeyne had ridden horses since she was a girl, she kicked the mare again and again and the little bay gave all she had as they flew under the gate and northward. Behind her Theon cut down another man as he cleared the gate. Grey Wind yelped, but the snarls and screams did not stop.

She was leaving them all behind. Sweet Eleyna, bold Lyra, brave Beth, all had given their own freedom in exchange for their little Stark lord’s. Now was not the time to weep for them. One of her hands clung to Snow, the other guided the horse. As they came to the woods, Jeyne hesitated, the bay slowed, and in an instant Theon was past them.

“This way!” He shouted, “to the Wall!”

That was the last place Jeyne wanted to go, but there would be time to talk of that later. A Greyjoy he may be, but he was raised in the North and she in the Westerlands. He knew the way better than she. Sending a silent prayer to the gods, Jeyne turned the bay’s head and sent her haring after him. Once in the Wolfswood, they could escape their pursuers, confuse them, and turn south. What would Robb say if he could see her fleeing Winterfell, trusting in Theon Greyjoy to protect her? What would Lady Catelyn say?

What did it matter what Catelyn said? This was her fault. If she had not agreed to marry Arya to a Bolton it would never have happened. Perhaps that would be leveraged once they arrived in the Vale or Riverlands. A Tully had brought House Stark to its knees. Another thought chilled Jeyne’s spine and set her heart.

What would her mother say, if she could see her now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's our last Winterfell chapter. I think we left it on a good note :)
> 
> New Pinterest board to go with the Twitter: https://www.pinterest.com/jeanzedlav/the-mad-kings/
> 
> Next Chapter: Sansa


	75. Lady Lannister XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hear me roar.

Sansa Stark was a commodity.

As Ned Stark’s maiden daughter she had been mocked by nobles and brutalized by the king and ignored by the queen. She had not been worthy of serving as a lady to soon-to-be-queen Margaery nor of protection from the Dowager Queen. Olenna Tyrell had arranged her marriage to the heir of Highgarden and the moment Sansa was snatched out of her grip she refused to look twice at her. Alla had prayed with her in the sept, Elinor had slept in her bed, and Megga had prodded her to laughter over Cersei’s false armor breastplate. None had bothered to so much as smile at her when she was of no more use to them.

But Sansa Stark is a commodity.

The Lady of Casterly Rock in all but name, she was worth as much as gold. Queen Margaery invited her to every event, minor and great, found her in the crowd and saved a place beside her. Lady Olenna cooed over Jerion and found a little painting of Rohanne Webber to compare their hair coloring. Alla invited her to prayer, Elinor complimented her embroidery, and Megga began to leave her hair loose in the Northern style that Sansa kept. Suddenly they remembered the walks in the garden and their offers to teach Sansa the high harp; the dress Margaery had gifted her, the lemon cakes Sansa loved, the way Sansa hated sleeping alone.

Now they remembered. Now they needed her.

Sansa gave the place in her bed to Jeyne when Jaime was missing. Her girlhood friend deserved it more than Merry Crane. Myrielle kept the seat to her right at every dinner or feast; she made a more loyal sister than Margaery. It was Obella she invited hawking, Ysilla who she gifted jewels, Roslin whose hair she braided. Watching as Margaery tried to outcompete silent, sweet Myrielle made Sansa smile through these dinners. In the face of the Tyrell women, even Ysilla closed ranks. They knew Sansa could carry them farther than the little queen would.

Margaery could accuse Sansa of nothing. She was Catelyn Tully’s daughter, after all, she was nothing but polite and welcoming. On Alla’s birthday she gifted her a carving of the Maiden. When Lady Alyce birthed a daughter she gave the child it’s weight in gold. After Leonette admired her gold butterfly hair ornament Sansa had one made for her. She was kind and sweet, but she was not the stupid little girl that they had first met in Kings Landing.

The first time Myrielle came to whisper of the slurs they had called Obella, Sansa confronted the queen. Obella enjoyed a week in Myrielle’s seat before she thought they had suffered enough flustered kindness. When Elinor offered to be her bedfellow while Jaime was gone, she sent her to Obella instead. Ysilla wore a dress decorated in feathers to a feast, a dress made in the Vale and gifted to her by Lady Lysa, and Merry spent a day calling her ‘little bird.’ Sansa crushed her fury at the reminder of Cersei’s cruelty and borrowed the dress to wear the next day. The Tyrells were hardly subtle, although Margaery remained above it all, but each time they tested her loyalty to her ladies Sansa pushed back.

They learned of her wolf blood when Megga called Myrielle a crab one day when Myrielle was breaking her fast with Tyrion. Sansa collected her embroidery and left. She told Tywin what had been said about his niece, about a Lannister daughter, and Megga sobbed her apology to Myrielle herself the next morning before they had even sat down to eat. Lord Mace gave Myrielle her choice of fabrics from the stores he had provided to Margaery, and Sansa sewed the dresses with her own hands. 

They learned that she was a lioness when Septa Nysterica tried to discourage Jeyne from holding Lady Alyce’s daughter by reminding her of her time with Petyr Baelish. Sansa handed Jerion to the stunned Jeyne, stood in the middle of Margaery’s favorite garden alcove, and roared that war between the North and the Crown had been finished with her marriage. The insults done to the Northern houses would not be dragged before her and praised. When her best imitation of Cersei was done, Margaery apologized thrice and sent the septa away for the evening. Once Jerion squirmed from Jeyne’s arms the queen replaced him with Princess Jocelyn. She told Jaime and Myrielle told Tyrion, and she thought that Margaery had gone to Tywin. Within a fortnight Tywin had agreed to pay Jeyne’s dowry as benefited a noble maiden of the North.

In the midst of Sansa finding her feet was poor Desmera Redwyne, cousin to Queen Margaery and wife to Ser Daven, Tyrell and Lannister all in one, stuck between a Stark and her cousins. Highborn, pretty, and proud. Sansa sent Ysilla to her. Myrielle thought that the work would soothe Ysilla’s wounded pride. Sansa hoped that trusting Ysilla would make their relationship a bit easier, and give Ysilla a chance to make allies. 

That was why Desmera was to accompany them today.

Sansa had woken early and dressed with only Jeyne’s help in a dress of red and white. When Joy finally slipped from her room she set her little bag on the bed and came to brush Sansa’s hair. Once Jeyne was back in her own room to finish dressing, out of hearing, Sansa selected a little lion clip and turned to hand it to Joy. “Is it done, then?”

“Yes.”

Sansa asked nothing else. She did not want to know. The less she knew the less that could be drawn out of her. She had provided the gold and the letters, it was up to Joy to find her own way.

When her hair was finished, she drew on her doeskin slippers and followed Joy into the hall. In the common room which had been reserved for Sansa she found the rest of her ladies. Myrielle and Roslin were curled up with tea, while Ysilla and Desmera were comparing the coloring of their skirts over eggs and sausage. Lorra was missing, likely with Margaery, as she had taken to keeping company with Lady Alysanne. In the corner of the room farthest from the door Obella was seated at a table with her mother and a shared plate of food. 

Joy and Jeyne slid into seats beside Roslin, but Sansa padded across the room to the Dornishwomen. After she had defended Obella from the barbs of the Reach women Ellaria had visited occasionally. Sansa imagined that she was bored when Ser Oberyn was busy with his duties in the Keep. Had she not had her ladies she would have locked herself in her room as often as possible, but Ellaria did not have the same experience in the Keep that she did. As she approached, Obella looked up and grinned.

“Sansa, you have met my lady mother?”

“Lady Ellaria, yes,” Sansa agreed. 

The women stood with a smile, an actual smile, one that did not set Sansa on edge. Obella had taken after her father in most of her features, but her smile came from Ellaria. “Lady Sansa. I apologize for intruding, I was unaware of the circumstances.”

“Family is always welcome here,” she replied simply, “if you would like to join us to see Joy off we would not turn you away.”

“Oberyn and I are hawking with Lady Cerenna today,” Ellaria looked down at her daughter, eyes lingering across Lady’s muzzle as she did so. “I came to ask if Obella would accompany us.”

“I will stay to see Joy into her carriage.” Obella answered, looking at Sansa rather than her mother. 

Sansa dampened the hurt that welled up with a smile. Myrielle wrote her mother and Obella often escaped their outings to spent time with her parents, even Roslin received replies from her mother. Sansa had not received a letter in near a month in her mother’s hand, despite having sent three. The latest news she had was from Jeyne Westerling, her brother’s widow, of Arya fleeing her marriage. “We have a half hour, please stay, enjoy the food.”

When she returned to Myrielle her good-sister was nursing tea and had saved Sansa a bit of breakfast. She still disliked it when Lady crept between she and Sansa, but when Knight leaned his head over the arm of her chair to sniff toward the food she gave him the last scrap of sausage from her plate. Sansa snickered at the sight, for Myrielle was scared of hound puppies but not the lion, and gave Lady an egg to match Knight’s prize.

Joy was nervous throughout the meal. She ate little and kept one hand on the little bag at her side. Sansa could only imagine the things that Joy considered important enough to take with her. A dagger, to cut her golden hair and for protection on the journey, the papers and gold that Sansa had given her, it was not suited to hold clothes or food. No sooner had she thought it than she pushed the thought away. The less she knew the better. Myrielle leaned closer and asked of the Penroses, and Sansa put the wonderings out of her mind.

Something in Sansa hated the Sept of Baelor, had rebelled against the Seven when her father’s head rolled down their stairs, but that was not why she had requested a carriage. Whatever Joy meant to do must be done before she was known by the septas who would teach her. Lord Tywin waited in silence while Genna lectured Joy on the honor she was being given and Kevan told her that her father would be proud. Joy came to Sansa last of all, her eyes lingering on Jeyne, but their goodbyes had already been said.

Sansa would not cry in front of these people, but Joy had been her first friend in Kings Landing. She took the younger girl’s hands in hers and said, “I will pray for your success.” The gods of the North listened better than those of the sept. Joy smiled at that, brighter than she had been all day, and stepped into her carriage. Once the door had closed, Sansa turned away. The fewer eyes on her the better. 

The queen had requested her presence near midday, and so Sansa turned away the little Rosby squire that had come with an invitation while she sat in court. House Lannister had any number of unmarried cousins, and the Rosby’s thought she would be easier to charm than would Tywin. Perhaps they would have been right, but Sansa had never had a taste for trading children like chattel . Instead she caught the queen as she descended the throne, allowed Margaery to lock their arms together and begin a story about Edric Dayne’s latest feat in the yard. 

When Edric joined them as they exited the hall Margaery insisted he tell it himself. The boy was as uncertain as Sansa had once been, and so she prodded him through the tale with questions rather than letting him ramble. Margaery filled what silence he did not.

As they exited the Keep into the gardens, the little lord found his tongue. “My lady? You have a baseborn brother...Jon Snow?” 

“He’s with the Night’s Watch on the Wall.” Sansa agreed quietly, wondering what new folly this was. Did they think sending Joy off had made her mourn her dead family? “How do you know about Jon?”

“He is my milk brother.” 

“Brother?” Sansa did not understand. “Forgive me, but you’re from Dorne. How could you and Jon be milk brothers?”

“My lady mother had no milk when I was little, so Wylla had to nurse me.” 

A glance at Margaery told her the queen was as lost as she. “Who’s Wylla?” 

“Jon Snow’s mother. He never told you? She’s served us for years and years. Since before I was born.” 

“Jon never knew his mother. Not even her name.” Now that she said it aloud, it made Sansa hurt. Why had her father never even told Jon her name? What harm would that do to her lady mother that had not already been done? “You know her?”

“Wylla was my wet nurse,” he repeated solemnly. “I swear it on the honor of my House.” 

Sansa let that sink in for a moment. Wylla, her name is Wylla. She would need to write to Jon to tell him. He deserved to know her name. In her pause, Margaery took over the conversation again. “He will be as good as Arthur Dayne in a few years, Sansa.”

“Arthur Dayne, the Kingsguard? The one they called the Sword of the Morning?” 

“My father was Ser Arthur’s elder brother,” Edric agreed, “but Arthur was the better swordsman and so the title went to him. Lady Ashara was my aunt. I never knew her, though. She threw herself into the sea from atop the Palestone Sword before I was born.” 

“Why did she do that?” said Sansa. Arthur Dayne she knew, Ashara she did not.

Ned looked wary. He considered his words carefully before he said them. “Your lord father never spoke of her? The Lady Ashara Dayne, of Starfall?” 

“No. Did he know her?” 

“Before Robert was king. She met your father and his brothers at Harrenhal, during the year of the false spring.”

“And he was to remember one lady at a tourney?”

“Perhaps it’s not my place...” 

“Tell us, Edric,” Margaery insisted, “what could be so terrible?” 

He looked at her uncomfortably. “My aunt Allyria says Lady Ashara and your father fell in love at Harrenhal.” 

Sansa bit back the answer she wanted to say, buried the defense of her mother under the knowledge that her father had sired a bastard, replying instead, “so my father loved Lady Ashara, but fathered a bastard on her maid?”

Neither Margaery or Edric had an answer for that. After a moment of silence, Edric said, “that is what my aunt told me.”

When they came to the garden, Sansa helped Margaery into her seat and turned to look at Edric. “I ask your leave to write your sister, Lord Edric.”

If what he said was true, why would Lady Ashara throw herself into the sea? Jon was younger than Robb, by the time he had fathered him on Wylla he was already married. Why would she kill herself over a married man? Unless it was not her father’s leaving that had driven her to jump. 

“You do not need my permission, Lady Sansa,” he answered, “my aunt is Lady of Starfell now. She may write whomever she pleases.”

“Why are you writing to Starfell, Sansa?” Elinor asked, as Edric took the chance to flee. The girl’s pale skirts were so long they draped across the ground as she sat.

“Lord Edric said that his wet nurse was Jon’s mother,” she curled herself into her seat between Myrielle and Margaery, her words meant more for Myrielle than Elinor.

“Who is Jon?” Alla asked.

“Jon Snow is my baseborn brother,” Sansa answered, “he is a member of the Night’s Watch.”

“Why worry yourself?” Megga scoffed. “All men father bastards somewhere.”

Sansa had not intended to have this discussion today. She had not intended to ever have it, but when she turned to look at Megga she said it anyway. “My father was an honorable man. He would not have loved Lady Ashara and married my mother and then slept with a handmaiden for no reason.”

“An honorable man wo-”

She looked to the queen, who knew what Sansa knew of the Lannisters, and only once Sansa was looking at Margary and not Megga did she interject. “My father was an honorable man.”

“Megga, leave it.” The queen commanded. Margaery considered her for a moment, the shared knowledge heavy between them. It was not Sansa who had the most to lose, not Sansa’s son who would be outcast, not Sansa’s blood who would die, not Sansa’s position that would be stripped from her. Jerion had her red hair, something Cersei did not, but there was nothing to protect Joffrey. Nothing in Jocelyn that could not be explained by her Tyrell blood.

Megga looked between them, confused. Sansa turned away first, unconcerned of the tension, and picked up the basket containing her embroidery. By the time the food was served half the noblewomen in the court would arrive to court the queen’s favor. She had begun a pair of socks of Jocelyn, black with golden stags for her grandfather. The sight of them settled Margaery a bit, and the queen redirected the conversation with ease of practice.

By the time Martyn arrived, Sansa was nearly done with the last antler on the very toe of the sock. It was very difficult for Tywin’s squire to go anywhere without notice, least of all in the queen’s presence. As he rounded the corner Margaery caught sight of him. “What does my lord husband want now?”

“My pardon, Queen Margaery,” Martyn answered. “I have a letter for Lady Sansa.”

It bore no seal or tie, so she rolled it open while Margaery made a show of laughing with the solemn young squire. Myrielle caught her knitting when it fell from her hand, the needles forgotten. Jeyne, curled close to Roslin, lifted her head to stare at her. Sansa had to remind herself to breathe. When thoughts finally trickled back through the shock she wanted to curse Arya. Then she decided that Arya was in the right. If the Boltons were bold enough to do this - and Sansa was not stupid, she did not believe that ‘wildlings’ had taken Winterfell only for it to be miraculously saved by Boltons - then Arya was right not to give them a stronger claim.

“Where is Lord Tywin?”

“His solar, my lady, do you-”

Sansa handed Myrielle her knitting and stood. Martyn hurried along behind as she walked, golden skirts twisting at her heels, paper clutched in one hand. She stormed through the gardens and out of the castle, and up into the Tower of the Hand. No guard stopped her, although she did not know if that was because of her of because of Martyn’s company. The guards outside Lord Tywin’s solar were still, but at the sight of her one of them knocked loudly on the door. 

“Lord Tywin? Lady Sansa!”

“Enter.” It was only a snap of a word, but the door swung open and Sansa stepped inside alone.

“Lord Tywin, I received word that the Boltons have betrayed us.”

The words lingered in the air for a moment. 

Tywin studied her from behind his desk while the rest of the room shifted nervously. Cersei was smirking, while Jaime and Tyrion shared a look over their sister. Ser Kevan considered her for a moment, standing as she was in the open doorway with a baffled Martyn behind her, and then looked at his brother. Tyrion shuffled in his seat, inhaled to speak, and was cut off by his father.

“They have betrayed the Starks, yes.”

Sansa was dressed in the red of House Lannister, her dress accented with fine white embroidery. The jewels about her neck had belonged to Lady Joanna, the rings on her fingers had been Lady Jeyne Marbrand’s. She was the Lady of Casterly Rock, and she did not flinch in the face of his rebuke. In her mind she could see her mother, her beloved mother, trapped in her own home. It was not hard to remember her bravery and kindness. When she had come to Kings Landing she had been a little girl crying for her mother, even though the grandeur of it all, but now it was left to her to save them. “This letter says that Roose Bolton intends to marry my mother.”

“It does,” Tywin agreed mildly, shifting to lean back in his chair. Jaime wanted to say something, she thought, but he stayed in his chair, “but that would be another betrayal of House Stark. Perhaps a matter for House Tully as well.”

Northern customs were not Southron customs. If Lord Tywin did not understand then she would make him understand, but if she made him look foolish he would not take it kindly. Sansa calculated the bafflement on her face, the crinkling of the paper in her hands, looked down as if she was utterly confused by this reply, and when she looked back up she spoke, “Lord Tywin, forgive me, I do not think you understand what the Boltons plan to do.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.” Kevan shifted his weight nervously in his corner, and Cersei smiled down into her wine. Sansa did not so much as flinch at the tone. She was a Stark, and Starks were brave. She was a Lannister and she was not afraid.

_ I must be as strong as my lady mother. _

“In the North, we have a custom known as Widow’s Right. When a lord dies leaving no direct heirs, children or brothers, his wife’s claim is considered when deciding where his lands will go. Lady Barbrey Dustin was born Barbrey Ryswell, she married Willem Dustin, and when he died in Robert’s Rebellion his lands and title passed to her.” Sansa stepped farther into the room to allow the guards to close the door behind her. 

“You believe that Bolton intends to claim Winterfell by marrying your mother?” He was not laughing at her anymore Sansa kept her victory off of her face, buried it so far in her chest that no hint of it would linger in her voice, and leveled her jaw. 

“I know that he does, and he does not mean to honor my son’s claim,” Sansa answered.    
“He has done this before. His bastard Ramsay Snow forced Lady Donelle Hornwood, wife of the late Lord Halys Hornwood to marry him, and then he laid claim to her lands until he was forced by threat of war to turn them over to the sister of Lord Halys.”

“He had a living sister?” Tyrion asked. Bless Tyrion, he knew what she was doing and his question was his support. Half the information that Sansa had gathered had come from Tyrion. If it was a matter of distant cousins of distant cousins, perhaps such an act could be excused. Breaking the direct line of succession, however, was something different. Something uniquely dangerous to Lord Tywin’s plans.

“A sister wed to a lord with two sons,” Sansa added. Lord Tywin was looking at her now, she must not cry at the thought of her mother in the hands of these monsters. Robb had told her that Boltons flayed their enemies, once. Theon had laughed and said it was illegal, but Jon had reminded them that illegal and not done are different things. “Lord Bolton will sire a son on my mother and seat the boy in Winterfell. When Jaime’s son comes to Moat Cailin he will find it closed to him and heavily guarded. My lord, if we do not act now the war will be long and bloody. I will lose sons. So will your bannermen. House Lannister will be weakened. All that can be done then can be done now; without bloodshed.”

“I will send soldiers to secure Winterfell,” Tywin agreed at last, and although he did not say so lightly Sansa could feel the dismissal. 

“No Lannister men will find welcome in Winterfell,” Sansa warned. She tested his patience, she knew, but if she did not then she would never gain what she desired. Lions did not hide their voices. Sansa wrapped her defiance in pretty words but it was still a defiance. “The Northerners will sooner bend to Roose Bolton than to the south, my lord.”

“Your son will be a Lannister.” Tywin warned.

At the same moment, Cersei scoffed, “and I suppose you have a plan, little dove?”

Neither Sansa nor Tywin bothered to look at her. Cersei did not matter now, Tywin could scold her later. It was Sansa he was trying to put back in her place. He thought Joffrey had broken her wings and left her on the ground, but he had given her claws too. If she could not fly away she would fight. “Then you understand. My son must be fostered in Winterfell at an early age with one of my father’s trusted bannermen if he is to rule the North. If Roose Bolton is allowed to sit in Winterfell he will keep it. If he is given Jaime’s son, then Jaime will quickly be short a son.”

Tywin considered her in the silence that had fallen. Sansa did not break his gaze. Her father was gone. Robb was gone, and Bran and Rickon, and Jon was sworn to the Night’s Watch. Arya had disappeared into the snows. The Boltons reported that Jeyne Westerling and her baby, Robb’s baby, were dead. There was no way to save them, but she could save her mother. She  _ would _ save her mother. Even if she had to tear Winterfell apart at the seams, she would save her mother.

“You are Eddard Stark’s daughter,” he said at last, and the words made her heart leap. “You know the North. Who would you have set in Winterfell, to raise my grandson to be Warden of the North?”

“I do not know, my lord.” It was the only card she had to play. If she did not go she could not protect anyone. “When I was a girl in Winterfell there was no disagreement about who were loyal bannermen. Standing in Kings Landing, I cannot tell you the happenings of the North.”

“Father, you ca-” Cersei broke in, but Sansa spoke over her.

“However. If you take me to Winterfell, I will call the men who swore to my father and they will swear to me. Then I will tell you who must raise my son if you mean to sit him in my father’s seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay last, very overdue, chapter! The good news is that while I suffered writer's block here, the sequel was outlined pretty well. Keep an eye out for it being posted in the next couple days, or follow me to get the notification! 
> 
> First chapter of that will feature the Riverlands, including the Hound and Arya.


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